[BRARY 


IE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL  :FORNIA 


LOS  ANGEL  ES 


A  MAGAZINE  OF  LETTERS 

SPRING  NUMBER 


MARCH-APRIL 


RI  CHARD    G.     BADGER 

THE   POET   LORE   COMPANY 

BOSTON        MCMX  VIII 


COPYRIGHT  1918,  BY  THE  POET  LORE  COMPANY 
All  Rights  Reserved 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  is  fully  protected  by  copyright  in  the  United  States  and  in 
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SATURDAY  NIGHT* 

A  NOVEL  FOR  THE  STAGE  IN  FIVE  TABLEAUX 

BY  JACINTO  BENAVENTE 

Translated  from  the  Spanish  by  John  Garrett  Under  hill 

CHARACTERS 


THE  LECTOR. 

IMPERIA. 

PRINCESS  ETELVINA. 

THE  COUNTESS  RINALDI. 

LADY  SEYMOUR. 

EDITH. 

DONINA. 

ZAIDA. 

LELIA. 

MME.  JENNY. 

MAJESTA. 

ESTHER. 

JULIETTE. 

ROSINA. 

PEPITA. 

CELESTE. 

TERESINA. 

NELLY. 

FANNY. 

MARCELLA. 

LEONARDO. 

PRINCE  MICHAEL  ALEXANDER. 


PRINCE  FLORENCIO. 

LORD  SEYMOUR. 

THE  DUKE  OF  SUABIA. 

HARRY  LUCENTI. 

THE  SIGNORE. 

MR.  JACOB. 

NUNU. 

TOMMY. 

TOBACCO. 

RUHU-SAHIB. 

GAETANO. 

CECCO. 

PIETRO. 

COMMISSARY  OF  POLICE. 

GENARO. 

AN  UNKNOWN. 

IST  SAILOR. 

2ND  SAILOR. 

3RD  SAILOR. 

A  WAITER. 

CORNAC. 

SERVANT 


LADIES,   GENTLEMEN,    PERFORMERS   IN   THE   CIRCUS,    POLICE, 
SAILORS,  GYPSIES  AND  ATTENDANTS. 

The  action  takes  place  in  a  Winter  Resort  upon  the  Riviera, 
situated  near  the  boundary  between  Italy  and  France. 


*Copyr!ght,  1918,  by  John  Garrett  Undi-rh'll. 


i28  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

PROLOGUE 

SPOKEN  BY  THE  LECTOR 


It  is  Saturday  night.  Earth,  sea  and  sky  blend  in  refulgent 
harmony' — light,  waves,  mountain  tops  and  groves  smile  with  the 
freshness  of  a  world  new-born,  ignorant  of  sorrow  and  of  death. 
Gods  and  heroes,  nymphs  and  fawns  should  inhabit  this  enchanted 
shore,  love  and  wisdom  alone  are  worthy  to  contemplate  its 
beauty.  The  idylls  of  Theocritus  and  the  eclogues  of  Virgil 
breathe  the  spirit  of  its  poesy,  or  if  perchance  a  poet  of  our  un- 
quiet time  may  turn  to  it  to  glorify  his  melancholy,  let  it  be  the 
divine  Shelley,  worshipper  of  the  eternal  harmony  of  Beauty, 
Truth,  and  Good,  who  refused  to  set  bounds  and  limits  to  the 
infinite,  adoring  God  in  all  his  works.  The  ritual  of  his  worship 
shall  be  the  passionate  litany  of  the  holy  poet  of  Assisi,  the  uni- 
versal lover,  who  greeted  all  things  with  his  song  of  ardent  flame: 
Brother  Sun,  Brother  Sea,  Brother  Birds,  Brother  Wolf — all 
brothers! 

Into  this  enchanted  scene,  by  Nature  so  lavishly  endowed, 
comes  man.  It  is  the  fashionable  winter  season — a  la  mode — man 
has  chosen  his  earthly,  paradise  well;  for  paradise  indeed  it  is. 
He  flees  from  the  cold  and  the  chill  of  the  North,  but  he  brings 
the  chill  of  his  life  with  him;  he  flees  from  his  life,  but  his  life 
follows  and  overtakes  him.  Every  pathway  beneath  his  feet 
opens  into  an  inferno  like  Dante's,  above  whose  portals  is  in- 
scribed the  legend: 

Through  me  the  way  is  to  the  city  dolent, 
Through  me  the  way  is  to  eternal  dole, 
Through  me  the  way  among  the  people  lost. 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  129 

THE  FIRST  TABLEAU 

A  Hall  in  a  sumptuous  Villa. 

The  PRINCESS  ETELVINA,  LADY  SEYMOUR,  the  COUNTESS 
RINALDI,  EDITH,  LEONARDO,  PRINCE  MICHAEL,  PRINCE  FLOREN- 
cio,  LORD  SEYMOUR,  HARRY  LUCENTI  and  the  DUKE  OF  SUABIA 
are  seated  about  the  room.  EDITH  plays  upon  a  lute,  while  LADY 
SEYMOUR  and  LEONARDO  listen  to  the  music.  PRINCESS  ETEL- 
VINA, PRINCE  MICHAEL,  LORD  SEYMOUR  and  the  DUKE  OF 
SUABIA  take  tea.  PRINCE  FLORENCIO,  the  COUNTESS  RINALDI  and 
HARRY  LUCENTI  examine  a  number  of  etchings  and  engravings, 
engaging  meanwhile  in  an  animated  conversation.  Several  SER- 
VANTS are  in  attendance,  one  of  whom  hands  a  telegram  to  PRINCE 
MICHAEL. 

Etelvina. — News  from  Suabia? 

Prince  Michael. — Extraordinary  news.  (To  the  PRINCESS.) 
You  should  be  the  first  to  announce  it.  Will  you  read? 

Duke. — Is  it  serious  ?  (Imposing  silence.)  The  music,  ladies, 
if  you  please — 

Etelvina. — I  am  delighted.  Listen,  my  son.  His  Imperial 
Majesty  was  presented  this  morning  with  a  prince  and  heir. 

Prince  Michael. — Long  live  the  Prince! 

All. — Long  live  the  Prince! 

Duke. — And  viva  Suabia! 

All. — Viva  Suabia! 

Prince  Florencio  (As  he  takes  the  telegram}. — At  last!  A 
prince  after  seven  princesses!  The  weight  of  the  Empire  had 
oppressed  me  long  enough.  It  had  become  an  obsession.  Now 
I  shall  be  able  to  recover  my  health. 

Lady  Seymour. — I  must  say  that  you  bear  the  blow  cheer- 
fully. 

Rinaldi.—Onc  does  not  lose  a  throne  every  day. 

Etelvina  (To  PRINCE  MICHAEL). — We  must  reply  at  once. 
Do  not  delay  our  congratulations.  Our  best  wishes  for  the 
prosperity  of  the  empire. 

Prince  Florencio. — Nobody  will  believe  that  they  are  sincere. 
People  always  misunderstand  me.  The  Empress  suggested  an 
absence  from  Court  because  she  was  afraid  that  I  might  be  in 
too  great  a  hurry  to  wear  the  crown.  Now  that  the  life  of  my 
august  cousin  is  so  closely  bound  up  with  mine  there  is  less  reason 
than  ever  why  I  should  return  to  Suabia.  The  responsibility  of 
my  own  life  will  suffice  me. 


i3o  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Etelvina. — If  one  may  judge  by  the  little  care  that  you  take 
of  it. 

Prince  Florencio. — Since  it  is  my  own  and  belongs  entirely 
to  me,  perhaps  I  shall  finish  by  valuing  it.  I  am  free! — no  longer 
the  heir  apparent,  the  center  of  so  many  hopes,  so  much  ambition, 
and  so  much  hatred.  However,  I  am  sorry  for  my  cousins,  the 
seven  little  princesses,  as  the  Salic  Law  of  the  Empire  does  not 
permit  them  to  inherit  themselves.  They  have  been  dreaming 
all  these  years  of  becoming  imperial  consorts  at  my  expense.  It 
will  not  matter  to  them  now  whether  or  not  I  behave. 

Etelvina. — You  have  no  right  to  talk  like  that.  Always  this 
flippant  tone! 

Duke. — Highness,  many  of  us  had  great  faith  in  you.  We 
watched  you  from  the  cradle;  we  fought  beside  your  father.  The 
heir  is  a  mere  babe  and  the  Emperor  already  old.  The  state  of 
the  country  is  perturbed. 

Prince  Michael. — Clearly  this  is  not  a  solution. 

Prince  Florencio  (To  PRINCE  MICHAEL). — No,  my  dear  Uncle, 
not  while  you  are  still  young.  You  may  be  Regent  yet,  as  you 
would  have  been  with  me:  the  weight  of  the  Empire  would  have 
fallen  upon  your  shoulders,  and  you  would  have  inherited  it  in 
the  end.  My  imperial  career  would  have  been  short. 

Etelvina. — Who  knows?  Life  then  would  have  had  some 
object  for  you — it  would  have  acquired  meaning.  However,  if 
you  are  satisfied 

Prince  Florencio. — Absolutely.  Do  you  recall  Daudet's 
11  Rois  en  exile":  "Do  you  love  me  less  now  that  I  am  not  to  be 
king?" 

Etelvina. — Ungrateful,  foolish  boy!  To  see  you  happy  is  all 
that  I  desire. 

Lady  Seymour. — Edith  was  just  playing  the  national  air 
of  your  lost  Empire.  A  curious  coincidence. 

Prince  Florencio. — Yes,  upon  the  lute.  Quite  depressing! 
The  theme  to  do  it  justice  requires  drums  and  trumpets  against 
a  background  of  flashing  swords  and  shining  armor.  I  am  told 
that  all  the  fighting  spirit  of  our  country  has  been  put  into  it 
although  it  was  composed  by  a  monk  who  was  a  foreigner,  for  the 
funeral  of  some  poet. 

Duke. — A  preposterous  fabrication. 

Lady  Seymour. — A  monk,  did  you  say,  and  a  poet?  The 
combination  is  amusing. 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  131 

Leonardo. — Tennyson  might  have  composed  an  occasional 
poem. 

Lady  Seymour. — Tennyson  was  an  exceptional  poet.  He  was 
a  gentleman,  received  in  the  best  society. 

Harry  Lucenti  (To  LEONARDO). — Lady  Seymour  is  jealous 
of  me.  She  will  not  pardon  the  Prince  my  invitation. 

Leonardo. — You  are  the  scandal  of  England. 

Harry  Lucenti. — Run  through  the  boudoirs  of  the  great 
ladies  and  in  every  one  of  them  you  will  find  a  volume  of  my 
poems,  laid  away  with  their  love  letters.  On  the  table  in  the 
drawing  room,  the  Bible  and  Kipling. 

Leonardo. — And  a  respectable  husband  at  the  head  of  the 
table. 

Harry  Lucenti. — After  dinner,  under  it. 

Leonardo. — I  told  you  that  joke  yesterday  and  you  found 
it  in  very  bad  taste. 

Harry  Lucenti. — On  the  lips  of  a  foreigner,  it  continues  to  be 
so.  It  is  not  easy  to  forget  that  one  is  English,  although  one  has 
been  banished  from  England  like  Byron. 

Leonardo. — You  have  not  yet  succeeded  in  banishing  England. 

.Rinaldi. — Byron,  did  you  say?  Byron  does  not  seem  im- 
moral to  me.  I  learned  English  when  I  was  a  schoolgirl  reading 
Byron. 

Leonardo. — Did  you  learn  nothing  but  English  reading 
Byron  ? 

Rinaldi. — We  are  not  like  Lady  Seymour  in  Italy.  It  is 
impossible  to  shock  us  with  banished  poets. 

Leonardo. — The  Countess  is  shock-proof.  She  has  been 
cured  of  fear. 

Rinaldi. — Rather  I  am  convalescing.  That  is  the  reason  I 
come  here  every  winter. 

Leonardo. — Always  alone. 

Rinaldi. — What  is  there  to  attract  my  husband? 

Leonardo. — Nothing;  he  has  been  cured  already. 

Etehina.— There  will  be  great  rejoicing  in  Suabia. 

Duke. — The  Court  and  the  official  element,  not  to  speak  of 
the  people,  idolized  Prince  Florencio.  They  could  not  forget  that 
he  was  the  son  of  the  soldier,  of  the  invincible  liberator,  your 
husband,  venerated  throughout  Suabia. 

Etehina. — Justly  so.  Yet  during  these  last  years  they  have 
hesitated  at  nothing  to  discredit  my  son. 


1 32  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Duke. — What  constitution  at  his  age  could  support  this 
continual  liquidation? 

Prince  Michael. — If  Florencio's  conduct  had  been  otherwise — 
pardon,  I  do  not  wish  to  distress  you — he  is  your  son  and  I  know 
how  you  love  him.  But  Florencio's  conduct — 

Etelvina. — What  can  you  tell  me  that  I  do  not  already  know? 
I  have  shed  too  many  tears.  But  now  it  is  his  health  which  dis- 
turbs me.  I  have  brought  him  here  to  recuperate. 

Prince  Michael. — Here?  You  arrived  only  two  days  ago, 
and  already  the  Prefect  has  advised  me  that  he  is  frequenting 
objectionable  resorts. 

Etelvina. — Great  Heavens! 

Prince  Michael. — The  Prefect  is  a  man  of  the  world;  every- 
body calls  him  the  Signore.  He  is  paid  handsomely  to  keep  the 
peace,  and  throw  an  air  of  respectability  over  this  petty  prin- 
cipality, which  is  a  cosmopolis  and  Mecca  of  all  the  idlers  of  the 
earth. 

Etelvina. — Do  you  tell  me  that  Florencio — 

Prince  Michael. — There  is  no  need  to  be  alarmed.  The 
Signore  has  detailed  special  agents  to  watch  him;  they  will  protect 
him  should  occasion  arise.  Nevertheless  it  is  deplorable. 

Etelvina. — Yes,  it  is.  You  sympathize  with  me.  Nothing 
remained  but  that  he  should  form  an  intimacy  with  this  Lucenti, 
this  poet,  half-English,  half-Italian,  a  man  utterly  without  moral 
sense.  Lord  and  Lady  Seymour  were  scandalized  to  meet  him 
here. 

Prince  Michael. — -Is  it  possible?  But  I  thought — pardon  a 
moment.  I  noticed  my  lady,  that  you  seemed  somewhat  shocked 
at  the  presence  of  Harry  Lucenti. 

Lady  Seymour. — Really,  nobody  receives  that  man. 

Prince  Michael. — I  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought  I  saw  you 
talking  with  him  at  the  Casino  last  evening. 

Lady  Seymour. — Oh,  many  times:  But  not  before  my  hus- 
band. 

Prince  Michael. — But  I  have  often  seen  your  husband  talking 
with  him. 

Lady  Seymour. — Certainly.     But  not  before  me. 

Prince  Michael. — English  propriety  is  more  complicated  than 
I  had  imagined. 

Lady  Seymour. — It  is  respectability. 

Rinaldi  (To  LEONARDO). — I  am  in  no  humor  for  trifling  this 
afternoon.  Frankly,  I  am  bored.  You  have  no  idea  how  bored 
I  am. 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  133 

Leonardo. — But  you  are  dying  to  tell  me. 

Rinaldi. — Artists  are  such  dangerous  confidants.  After- 
ward they  reveal  all  one's  secrets  to  the  public. 

Leonardo. — I  am  a  sculptor.  What  secrets  have  you  that 
my  art  could  reveal  to  the  public?  By  the  way,  you  would  make 
an  admirable  Juno. 

Rinaldi. — You  said  Minerva  yesterday. 

Leonardo. — It  may  be  Venus  tomorrow;  everything  in  due 
season. 

Rinaldi. — You  might  have  worse  models. 

Leonardo. — I  have  no  desire  to  question  it. 

Rinaldi. — I  warn  you  that  I  am  wearing  no  stays;  this  is 
support  a  la  grecque. 

Leonardo. — Now  you  are  encroaching  upon  my  domain. 
Only  spiritual  confidences  if  you  please. 

Rinaldi. — Why  do  you  suppose  I  am  here  this  evening? 

Leonardo. — How  should  I  know?  Probably  because  you 
were  invited  by  Prince  Michael,  like  the  rest  of  us,  to  celebrate 
the  arrival  of  his  sister,  the  Princess  Alexandra  Etelvina  and  her 
august  son,  Prince  Florencio,  the  late  apparent  heir. 

Rinaldi. — Invited?  On  the  contrary,  I  am  here  precisely 
because  I  was  not  invited. 

Leonardo.-— Impossible ! 

Rinaldi. — Apparently  I  am  considered  a  declassee;  it  is  my 
own  fault  in  a  way.  In  Paris  I  was  presented  to  the  Prince 
officially  by  the  Italian  Ambassador,  but  here,  of  course,  there  is 
no  etiquette.  One  comes  for  a  change  to  amuse  oneself.  One 
associates  with  everybody,  just  as  if  one  were  in  the  country.  The 
Casino,  the  races,  the  shooting  club  are  all  neutral  ground.  Well, 
one  day  at  one  of  them,  I  chanced  upon  the  Prince  with— with 
his- 

Leonardo. — With  Imperia. 

Rinaldi. — Should  I  have  refused  to  bow  to  him?  How 
absurd!  I  am  not  a  Lady  Seymour,  afraid  to  be  seen  in  public 
with  a  fellow  countryman,  an  artist  like  Harry  Lucenti. 

Leonardo. — It  would  have  been  absurd. 

Rinaldi. — Art  and  beauty  are  sacred  in  Italy.  One  of  the 
popes  said  apropos  of  Benvenuto  Cellini,  that  such  artists  were 
beyond  all  laws.  I  did  not  hesitate  to  meet  the  Prince's  ina- 
morata, nor  absent  myself  from  the  companies  at  her  villa,  nor 
hurry  to  leave  the  Prince  at  the  moment  she  arrived,  when  only  a 
few  remained— the  intimates,  the  inner  circle.  They  are  the 


i34  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

••-« 

most  fascinating.  However,  the  Prince  has  taken  my  conde- 
scension for  moral  abdication.  That  is  the  reason  I  am  here 
without  an  invitation.  Naturally  he  did  not  seem  surprised,  but 
when  the  Princess  saw  me,  she  was  like  an  icicle. 

Leonardo. — She  is  very  old-fashioned.  She  receives  only 
dragons  of  virtue. 

Rinaldi. — And  discretion,  like  the  daughter  of  the  Duke  of 
Suabia.  Romantic  creature,  is  she  not? — a  young  lady  in  waiting, 
whom  the  Princess  keeps  in  the  family  so  that  Prince  Florencio 
may  entertain  himself  at  home  and  not  create  such  scandals  in 
Suabia. 

Leonardo. — Poor  Prince!  He  is  very  susceptible;  a  lover  of 
art,  indefatigable  in  the  pursuit  of  beauty. 

Rinaldi. — Entirely  too  much  so.  Was  he  not  a  lover  of 
Imperia  before  his  Uncle? 

Leonardo. — I  did  hear  some  talk. 

Rinaldi. — And  after  you? 

Leonardo. — She  was  only  my  model;  I  was  never  her  lover. 
She  took  her  name,  Imperia  from  one  of  my  statues.  It  was  at 
my  studio  in  Rome  that  she  met  Prince  Florencio. 

Rinaldi. — Who  left  you  without  a  model?  You  see  I  am 
taking  your  word.  Then  you  fell  sick. 

Leonardo. — With  malaria. 

Rinaldi. — And  changed  your  life  completely.  Your  art 
suffered  a  collapse.  Is  it  true  that  you  broke  into  pieces  a  great 
block  of  marble  prepared  for  a  gigantic  statue,  The  Triumph  of 
Life:  It  was  to  have  been  a  work  of  genius,  and  surely  not  the 
last.  Italy  then  might  have  boasted  two  Leonardos,  equally 
great. 

Leonardo. — Leonardo!  You  have  no  idea  how  the  name  has 
obsessed  me  ever  since  I  was  a  child.  It  has  been  to  me  like  some 
preternatural  portent.  My  father  admired  the  divine  da  Vinci, 
so  he  gave  me  the  name.  My  father  was  a  lover  of  beautiful 
things,  an  idolater  of  great  artists.  It  was  a  mighty  name  which 
compelled  me  from  my  boyhood's  days  to  dream  great  dreams. 
But  you  see  how  it  was:  a  great  ideal  can  be  realized  only  when 
it  has  been  reduced  to  fragments,  shattered  into  parts.  From 
that  block  of  Carrara  marble  from  which  I  intended  to  carve  my 
masterpiece,  I  made  a  thousand  figurines,  such  as  you  have 
seen  in  the  windows  and  at  the  exhibitions,  or  afterward  in  the 
parlors  and  boudoirs  of  the  rich — graceful,  if  you  will,  charming; 
the  public  was  pleased  and  they  sold  very  well.  Instead  of  a 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  135 

•a  ^dazzling  flash  of  inspiration  in  a  single  work,  a  spark  of  artful 
grace  in  a  thousand  toys;  instead  of  a  monument  to  immortalize 
an  heroic  deed  and  embody  beauty  to  posterity,  a  paperweight 
perhaps,  or  a  bibelot  to  support  an  electric  light.  And  people 
said  that  I  had  realized  my  ideal!  They  judged  my  soul  by  my 
work.  They  see  the  grains  of  sand,  but  they  do  not  know  that 
in  their  making  a  mountain  crumbled  into  dust! 

Rinaldi. — But  suppose  the  ideal  is  one  of  love,  as  mine  is? 

Leonardo. — You  know  the  secret.  Break  the  block  of  your 
illusions  and  content  yourself  with  figurines.  Love  all  as  you 
would  have  loved  one. 

Rinaldi. — Loving  much  is  not  the  same  as  loving  many. 
Consider  your_e/xperience.  You  broke  the  marble,  but  have  you 
been  able  to  forget  your  model,  your  Imperia?  Why  are  you  here 
if  it  is  not  for  her? 

Leonardo. — We  are  all  here  for  something. 

Rinaldi.—  Which  we  do  not  tell.  The  fact  is  that  we  wish  to 
escape  ourselves,  from  the  false  lives  which  we  lead,  which  our 
position  in  the  world  imposes.  That  is  why  we  huddle  together 
in  this  promiscuous  place  where  everybody  sees  and  knows  every- 
thing, but  where  everybody  agrees  to  see  and  know  nothing. 
We  are  cowed  into  respectability  tonight  by  the  presence  of  the 
Princess;  we  are  in  another  world  where  we  are  bored  beyond 
speaking.  We  would  give  an  eternity  to  be  free  in  body  and  in 
soul  as  our  thoughts  are  at  this  moment. 

Leonardo. — We  are  shadows  of  ourselves  as  we  pass  through 
the  world.  We  see  those  who  walk  beside  us,  but  we  know 
nothing  of  what  they  are. 

Prince  Florencio  (To  HARRY  LUCEXTI). — I  must  go  with 
mother.  It  will  never  do  to  have  her  worry.  I  can  give  out  that 
I  have  gone  to  bed;  and  join  you  later.  Will  those  people  be 
there? 

Harry  Luce  nil. — We  might  stop  for  them  at  the  theatre. 
Do  you  know  Mr.  Jacob's  new  theatre?  A  gorgeous  music-hall 
in  the  worst  possible  taste,  but  diverting.  Of  course  it  has  less 
character  than  the  old  puppet  show  by  the  port,  with  its  sailors 
and  stevedores,  open-mouthed  at  the  sight  of  the  fine  ladies  ad- 
venturing slumming.  But  Cecco's  tavern  is  still  there.  He 
gives  foreigners  their  money's  worth  too — the  whole  performance, 
popular  dances,  a  duel  with  knives,  winding  up  with  a  raid  by  the 
police,  all  engineered  and  directed  by  Cecco.  You  would  swear 
it  was  the  truth. 


136  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Prince  Florencio. — We  might  take  supper  there.  It  will  be 
more  amusing  than  these  eternal  midnight  cafes. 

Harry  Lucenti. — I  think  so  too.  We  can  have  the  perform- 
ance suppressed.  He  knows  we  are  in  the  secret.  (They  con- 
tinue the  conversation.) 

Rinaldi  (To  LEONARDO). — I  felt  sure  of  you  that  you  were 
sympathetic,  but  this  intimacy  with  the  Prince  was  disconcerting. 
My  husband  may  be  sent  as  ambassador  to  Suabia.  It  would 
never  do  to  have  these  people  suspect  anything.  Otherwise  I 
should  have  consulted  the  Prefect. 

Leonardo. — The  Signore?  How  could  you  be  so  foolish? 
This  place  would  be  a  paradise  but  for  him.  Every  winter  he 
imports  the  picked  rogues  of  Christendom;  then  they  pay  him  to 
keep  an  eye  on  them;  so  he  contrives  to  earn  his  salary.  How- 
ever, leave  it  to  me;  don't  you  worry.  You  say  he  works  in 
a  music  hall? — an  acrobat,  a  brute  of  a  fellow? 

Rinaldi. — A  brute,  but  wonderful!  You  understand;  you 
too  are  an  artist. 

Leonardo. — Do  you  mean  that  he  is  threatening  you  with  an 
open  scandal? 

Rinaldi. — I  am  in  for  five  thousand  francs. 

Leonardo. — Incredible.  You  have  been  foolish  in  more 
senses  than  one. 

Rinaldi. — Not  a  word  of  it  to  anybody. 

Leonardo. — No,  everybody  knows  it  already.  Don't  imagine 
that  everybody  hears  from  me  what  I  hear  from  everybody. 

Rinaldi. — But  they,   do  they  know? 

Leonardo. — Oh!  I  should  not  bother.  The  same  thing 
happened  to  Lady  Seymour  with  one  of  her  grooms.  Now  she 
envelopes  herself  in  the  British  flag  without  condescending  to 
notice  you  during  the  evening.  We  become  impossible  socially, 
not  because  of  what  people  know  about  us,  but  because  of  what 
they  imagine  we  may  know  about  them. 

Etehina. — Precisely.  We  ought  always  to  say  what  we  know 
about  everybody,  not  out  of  malice,  but  in  the  interest  of  truth 
and  good  feeling.  All  of  us  are  made  of  the  same  clay.  Virtue 
is  merely  relative — it  consists  of  those  vices  one  does  not  possess. 
If  it  had  been  virtuous  not  to  eat  apples,  and  I  had  been  Eve, 
man  would  never  have  fallen.  I  cannot  abide  the  sight  of  apples; 
although  I  do  not  complain  of  those  that  eat  them.  No  doubt 
they  have  good  reasons. 

Leonardo. — They  seem  good  to  them. 


/ 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  137 


Etelvina  (Rising).  —  It  is  growing  late.  It  is  time  to  retire. 
(To  PRINCE  MICHAEL).  Will  you  lunch  with  us  tomorrow? 

Prince  Michael.  —  Without  fail.  And  we  shall  write  to  the 
Emperor. 

Duke  (To  &  Servant).  —  Her  Highness's  coach.  Gentlemen, 
Her  Highness  retires. 

Etelvina.  —  Good  afternoon  to  all.  It  has  been  pleasant  to 
meet  old  friends.  —  My  lady,  I  count  you  among  them. 

Lady  Seymour.  —  It  is  kind  of  your  Highness  to  say  so. 

Etelvina.  —  Countess!  (To  LEONARDO).  Your  works,  my 
dear  artist,  have  become  indispensable  in  my  house.  I  trust  that 
you  apply  yourself  now.  Like  the  old  masters,  you  have  com- 
bined art  with  utility.  You  make  even  our  necessities  charming. 
Good  afternoon. 

Prince  Florencio  (To  Harry).  —  Don't  be  late. 

Harry  Lucenti.  —  I  shall  be  there  before  you.    Good  afternoon. 

Prince  Florencio.  —  Good-bye,  Uncle. 

Prince  Michael.  —  Be  careful  of  your  health.  Have  sonic 
regard  for  your  mother. 

Prince  Florencio.  —  You  see  how  it  is;  I  stay  at  home  this 
evening. 

Etelvina.  —  So  Florencio  has  promised  me. 

(PRINCESS  ETELVINA,  PRINCE  FLORENCIO,  EDITH  and  the 
DUKE  OF  SUABIA  go  out,  accompanied  by  PRINCE  MICHAEL.) 

Rinaldi.  —  The  Princess  is  remarkably  well  preserved. 

Leonardo.  —  She  almost  looks  young. 

Lady  Seymour.  —  She  leads  the  life  of  an  anchorite  —  a  good 
thing  for  the  poor. 

Rinaldi.  —  Very  popular,  I  am  told,  in  Suabia. 

Leonardo.  —  The  virtues  of  the  Princess  prove  more  embar- 
rassing at  court  than  the  vices  of  her  son.  That  is  the  reason 
they  advise  them  to  travel. 

Lord  Seymour.  —  I  never  meddle  in  foreign  affairs. 

Leonardo.-  —  I  was  speaking  for  myself,  my  lord,  a  habit  among 
artists. 

Lord  Seymour.  —  Damn  bad  habit!  (To.  LADY  SEYMOUR.) 
I  shall  accompany  you,  my  dear.  Where  do  you  pass  the  evening? 

Lady  Seymour.  —  At  the  Villa  Miranda.  There  is  to  be  cham- 
ber music.  You  know  what  that  is— 

(PRINCE  MICHAEL  re-enters.} 

Prince  Michael.  —  The  Princess  was  delighted  to  meet  you 
again. 


138  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Lady  Seymour. — Everybody  is  delightful  to  the  Princess. 
Good  afternoon,  Your  Highness.  Did  you  receive  the  invitation 
to  my  concert? 

Prince  Michael. — A  concert  such  as  could  be  conceived  only 
by  an  artist  of  your  taste. 

(LORD  and  LADY  SEYMOUR  go  out,  escorted  by  the  PRINCE.) 

Rinaldi. — You  noticed  that  she  did  not  invite  me.  How- 
ever, it  makes  no  matter.  I  don't  need  her  invitation. 

Leonardo. — You  will  go  without  it  of  course. 

Rinaldi. — Depend  upon  me. 

Harry  Lucenti. — Never  permit  yourself  such  a  liberty  with 
an  Englishwoman;  the  risk  is  too  great. 

Rinaldi. — I  shall  present  myself  upon  the  arm  of  one  of  her 
grooms. 

Harry  Lucenti. — I  should  advise  you  not  to  meddle  in  foreign 
affairs. 

Rinaldi. — Ah!  Do  you  defend  your  hypocritical  society 
after  having  been  made  the  victim  of  it? 

Harry  Lucenti. — I  never  complain;  I  do  as  I  like,  the  others 
do  the  same.  I  scandalize  England,  but  the  world  is  before  me. 

Rinaldi. — You  scandalize  the  world. 

Harry  Lucenti. — The  world  is  too  dull  to  be  so  easily  scan- 
dalized. Fancy  if  one  were  obliged  to  please  everybody!— 
Do  you  please  everybody? 

Leonardo. — But  the  Countess  does,  and  no  complaints. 

Rinaldi. — I  am  very  careful  about  what  people  think  of  me. 

Leonardo. — As  everybody  knows. 

Rinaldi. — Without  joking. 

Leonardo. — Seriously.  Of  course  everybody  knows.  But 
I  say,  if  you  were  not  careful! 

Harry  Lucenti. — Prince  Florencio  will  be  waiting. 

Rinaldi. — He  seems  to  be  a  great  friend  of  yours.  If  he  had 
been  Emperor,  you  would  have  been  always  at  his  side  like— 

Harry  Lucenti. — You  intended  to  say  like  a  fool? 

Rinaldi.— A  rather  sad  fool. 

Harry  Lucenti. — You  know  no  English  fools;  they  are  always 
sad.  They  might  pass  for  diplomatists  in  other  countries. 

Leonardo. — All  fools  are  sad.  A  smile  is  the  most  efficient 
grave  digger.  We  cry  over  what  lives,  what  suffers,  what  we  still 
carry  in  our  hearts;  but  when  we  laugh  at  a  thing — love,  faith,  an 
illusion,  memory — it  is  dead.  Shakespeare's  fools  are  the  most 
tragic  figures  in  his  tragedies.  Hamlet  shrivels  up  in  the  pres- 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  139 

ence  of  the  grave-diggers,  singing  and  jesting  among  the  graves. 
.  Their  spades  grit  in  the  earth,  and  out  comes  the  skull  of  Yorick, 
the  king's  jester,  leering  and  scoffing  with  that  horrible  grin  of 
his  bony  jaws.  Everything  dies,  but  we  still  smile.  What  is 
life,  eternally  renewing  itself,  but  the  triumphant  smile  of  love 
as  it  conquers  death? 

Rinaldi. — But  death  is  the  end  of  all  things  and  then— 

Harry  Lucenti. — Hell  then.  Fortunately,  you  Italians  have 
a  most  alluring  Inferno.  I  see  you,  Countess,  in  the  same  circle 
as  Francesca,  always  in  the  best  society. 

Rinaldi. — You  must  not  joke  about  such  things.  I  am  a 
believer;  I  hope  to  be  saved. 

Leonardo. — Why  not?  The  lives  of  all  the  saints  have  two 
parts — even  the  best  of  them.  You  are  still  in  the  first. 

Rinaldi. — Let  us  talk  of  something  else.  Often  I  leap  out 
of  bed  shrieking  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  mad  with  terror, 
because  the  idea  of  death  crept  into  my  mind  as  I  fell  asleep. 
Sometimes  when  it  is  day,  a  day  all  holiday  and  sunshine,  in  the 
midst  of  the  crowds  and  the  festival,  suddenly  I  stop  and  think 
that  within  a  few  years  all  those  people  will  no  longer  be  there, 
that  they  will  all  be  dead,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  I  must  cry  out 
to  them  and  warn  them,  as  if  some  terrible  calamity  were  im- 
pending, hanging  over  their  heads!  Then  all  at  once  a  dark  veil 
of  silence  descends  before  my  eyes — I  am  not  well;  I  have  con- 
sulted physicians. 

Leonardo. — What  do  they  say? 

Rinaldi. — They  tell  me  to  distract  myself,  to  sleep  always 
with  a  light,  with  some  one  near. 

Leonardo. — A  simple  prescription  for  you  to  follow. 

(PRINCE  MICHAEL  and  the  SIGNORE  enter.} 

Signore. — Ah,  gentlemen!  What!  The  Countess?  It  is  a 
long  time  since  I  have  had  the  pleasure — although  I  have  not 
forgotten  her. 

Rinaldi. — The  Signor  Prefect  is  very  kind.  Whenever  I 
have  had  the  pleasure  before,  it  has  always  been  because  of  some 
disagreeable  experience.  The  last  time  I  lost  my  jewels. 

Signore. — Well,  you  had  no  reason  for  complaint.  Do  you 
remember  that  night  you  heard  rumblings  in  your  villa?  And 
the  time  that  old  rascal  tried  to  make  you  dance  to  the  tune  of 
those  letters? 

Rinaldi. — They  were  forgeries. 


i4o  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Signore. — I  suppose  those  anonymous  articles  were  forgeries 
which  revealed  such  striking  knowledge  of  the  details  of  your 
life?  But  I  was  on  hand  to  protect  you. 

Rinaldi. — You  took  care  of  me,  Signore.  (To  LEONARDO.) 
I  wish  I  could  remember  his  name  .  . 

Leonardo. — As  he  never  tells  the  truth,  nobody  knows  his 
real  one.  Call  him  the  Signore  and  make  no  mistake. 

Prince  Michael. — I  had  no  idea  that  the  Countess  was  one 
of  your  clients. 

Signore. — One  of  the  best  of  them.  That  theft  of  her  jewels 
—a  trick  to  make  people  think  they  were  genuine.  They  were 
imitation.  She  had  them  valued  at  three  million  francs.  The 
anonymous  articles  she  wrote  herself,  so  that  she  could  truthfully 
say  they  were  slander. 

Prince  Michael. — Very  clever  of  her. 

Signore. — An  extreme  measure. 

Rinaldi  (To  LEONARDO). — The  Signore  bows  with  a  myste- 
rious air,  as  if  he  were  doing  one  the  favor  to  keep  a  secret. 

Leonardo. — I  hardly  think  he  would  go  so  far.  I  hear  he  is 
about  to  publish  his  memoirs. 

Rinaldi. — Gracious!  I  shall  have  to  buy  up  the  edition. 
Will  you  see  us  home? 

Leonardo. — As  far  as  you  like. 

Rinaldi. — You  do  not  wish  to  wait  for  Imperia? 

Leonardo. — Not  in  the  least.     I  am  at  your  service. 

Rinaldi. — Highness,  I  was  delighted  to  receive  your  invita- 
tion. 

Prince  Michael. — Are  you  leaving  so  soon?  Imperia  may 
be  here  at  any  moment.  Now  we  are  only  the  intimates,  the 
inner  circle. 

Rinaldi.— I  have  decided  that  it  is  better  not  to  be  too  inti- 
mate. I  had  supposed  that  there  was  only  a  garden  between 
your  villa  and  that  of  Imperia — a  garden  with  a  gate;  but  I 
realize  now  that  you  have  erected  an  impenetrable  wall. 

Prince  Michael. — Don't  be  vindictive!  It  isn't  my  fault. 
The  Princess  Etelvina  admits  very  few  to  her  acquaintance. 

Rinaldi. — And  she  is  very  wise  to  do  so.  Hereafter  I  shall 
imitate  her  example.  Good  afternoon,  Highness. 

Harry  Lucenti. — Highness,  good  afternoon. 

Prince  Michael. — Sinister  Poet!  Dark  courier  of  infernos 
like  Virgil!  Be  mindful  of  Prince  Florencio;  his  health  is  pre- 
carious. 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  141 

Harry  Lucenti. — I  shall  endeavor  to  be  as  mindful  as  Your 
Highness.     You  deprived  him  of  his  mistress — entirely  or  his 
good.     I  shall  do  the  same  whenever  I  have  the  opportunity. 

Prince  Michael. — Good  day. 

(The  COUNTESS  RINALDI,  LEONARDO,  and  HARRY  LUCUNTI 
go  out.) 

Prince  Michael. — To  what  am  I  indebted  for  this  honor, 
Sign  ore  ? 

Signore. — I  have  a  difficult  duty  to  perform — believe  me, 
solely  in  Your  Highness's  interest.  Positively  it  is  most  disagree- 
able. 

Prince  Michael. — Not  to  me;  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 

Signore. — No,  but  it  is  to  me;  I  am  the  one  who  finds  it 
disagreeable.  You  will  understand  when  I  tell  you  that  the 
meeting  here  of  two  Princes  is  regarded  with  suspicion  in  Suabia. 
You  are  both  immediate  heirs  in  direct  succession  to  the  throne. 

Prince  Michael. — I  beg  your  pardon — were,  were  until  to- 
day. Haven't  you  seen  the  telegram? 

Signore. — Another  heir?  I  am  delighted!  That  is,  I  am 
disappointed — upon  your  account,  although  I  am  relieved. 

Prince  Michael. — Do  not  trouble  yourself  upon  my  account. 
You  are  at  liberty  to  be  relieved  or  disappointed  quite  as  may 
suit  your  convenience. 

Signore. — Then  I  am  relieved,  because  a  conspiracy  had  been 
anticipated  and  I  had  been  retained  to  keep  you  under  surveil- 
lance. Of  course,  knowing  as  I  do,  the  sort  of  life  that  you  lead 
here — 

Prince  Michael. — To  avoid  being  emperor  I  would  have 
conspired  all  my  life !  Do  you  suppose  that  I  would  exchange  my 
liberty  for  an  empire? 

Signore. — No,  no!  I  beg  of  you,  do  not  insist.  I  should 
not  have  spoken  unless  I  had  been  sure.  The  government  of 
Suabia  subsists  upon  conspiracies.  To-day  it  is  an  assassination, 
to-morrow  an  insurrection.  Last  year  we  had  a  fellow  suspected 
of  anarchism,  a  Belgian  who  lived  in  the  most  extraordinary 
manner — in  a  wooden  stockade  which  he  built  for  himself.  And 
there  he  was  visited  by  the  most  singular  people,  the  most  out- 
landish in  dress!  We  felt  sure  we  had  discovered  a  hotbed  of 
sedition,  and  took  measures  to  surprise  it,  with  the  result  that  it 
turned  out  to  be  a  gallery  for  taking  views  for  the  cinematograph. 
Yes,  sir!  And  such  views!  I  had  him  indicted  for  an  assault 
upon  morality;  but  we  have  preserved  the  film?.  If  some  day 


I42  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

your  Highness  would  like  to  arrange  a  little  entertainment  for 
your  friends,  I  should  be  delighted  to  lend  them  to  you. 

Prince  Michael. — Thank  you,  but  I  should  hardly  care  to  be 
surprised  in  a  conspiracy  of  that  nature. 

Signore. — In  my  entire  career  I  have  never  been  guilty  of  an 
indiscretion. 

Prince  Michael. — You  must  have  seen  a  great  deal. 

Signore. — I  hold  the  key  to  a  whole  cabinet  of  mysteries. 
For  the  most  part,  people  know  about  as  much  about  life  as  they 
do  about  the  theatre — they  see  the  play,  that  is  all;  the  real  show 
goes  on  behind  the  scenes. 

Prince  Michael. — By  the  way,  that  reminds  me;  Prince  Flor- 
encio 

Signore. — Oh !  I  have  him  always  under  my  eye !  At  times 
it  is  difficult;  that  Englishman  knows  some  remarkable  places. 
And  what  people !  He  would  have  made  a  good  Prefect. 

Prince  Michael. — You  are  quite  inimitable. 

Signore. — Inimitable?  Am  I  not?  I  should  like  to  see 
what  this  Babel  would  be  without  me,  where  everything  appears 
on  the  surface  so  quiet  and  so  calm.  The  difficulty  in  my  pro- 
fession is  not  to  keep  myself  informed  about  my  business;  it  is  to 
prevent  myself  from  becoming  informed  about  what  is  not  my 
business.  However,  Your  Highness  need  have  no  concern. 
Pardon  this  intrusion. 

Prince  Michael. — You  are  pardoned,  you  may  be  sure. 

(The  SIGNORE  goes  out.} 

(During  the  conclusion  of  the  scene,  IMPERIA  has  been  slowly 
descending  the  staircase  of  the  hall.} 

Prince  Michael. — Imperial  How  are  you?  I  have  not  seen 
you  all  day.  I  have  not  had  a  spare  moment. 

Imperia. — I  also  have  had  guests. 

Prince  Michael. — So  I  see. 

Imperia.— You  must  not  judge  by  this.  You  know  that  I 
don't  dress  for  others;  I  dress  for  myself.  I  like  to  see  myself 
in  beautiful  clothes.  Your  friends  did  not  care  to  wait  for  me? 

Prince  Michael. — They  all  had  something  for  the  evening. 
The  Countess  is  terribly  put  out  with  me;  it  was  not  convenient 
to  invite  her. 

Imperia.— And  so  she  invited  herself?  She  was  right.  In 
a  company  which  included  Lady  Seymour  and  Harry  Lucenti,  the 
Countess  could  hardly  have  been  out  of  place.  Such  hypocrisy 
is  odious. 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  143 

Prince  Michael. — In  the  first  place,  with  regard  to  Lady 
Seymour  people  say,  they  don't  know.  As  far  as  the  poet  is 
concerned,  he  is  the  Prince's  friend,  and  an  artist. 

Imperia. — In  her  line,  the  Countess  is  also  an  artist. 

Prince  Michael. — She  is  a  fool.  Now  I  hear  that  she  is  in 
love  with  an  acrobat.  Not  only  does  she  frequent  the  Circus 
every  evening,  but  she  actually  goes  behind  the  scenes  and  mingles 
with  the  performers. 

Imperia. — Yes.     I  saw  her  there  myself. 

Prince  Michael. — You?     You  at  the  Circus! 

Imperia. — Yes;  the  last  four  nights,  without  missing  one. 

Prince  Michael. — But  you  said  nothing  about  it. 

Imperia. — You  didn't  ask  me. 

Prince  Michael. — What  infatuation  is  this? 

Imperia. — It  isn't  an  infatuation.     I  go  to  see  my  daughter. 

Prince  Michael. — Your  daughter!  What  daughter?  I  didn't 
know  you  had  a  daughter. 

Imperia. — You  never  asked  me.  What  do  you  know  of  my 
life?  What  other  people  have  told  you,  who  know  no  more  about 
it  than  you  do,  what  for  some  reason  I  have  seen  fit  to  tell  you 
myself — only  I  always  tell  you  the  truth. 

Prince  Michael. — But  this  daughter? 

Imperia. — Is  the  child  of  the  only  man  I  ever  loved. 

Prince  Michael. — Thanks. 

Imperia. — And  I  still  love  him;  I  always  shall. 

Prince  Michael. — Where  is  he? 

Imperia. — In  prison  for  life,  reprieved  from  a  death  sentence. 

Prince  Michael. — Romantic  episode! 

Imperia. — He  stabbed  a  foreigner  in  Rome,  attempting  to 
take  his  money.  He  killed  him.  He  had  been  three  days  with- 
out food.  We  models  could  earn  nothing  then;  the  malaria  had 
driven  out  the  artists. 

Prince  Michael.— Were  you  living  with  him  at  the  time? 

Imperia. — No;  he  was  living  with  his  mother.  I  lived  at 
home  with  my  parents  and  my  brothers  and  sisters,  with  my 
child.  My  father  owned  a  house  by  the  riverside,  half-tavern, 
half-concert-hall.  We  children  did  a  little  of  everything.  During 
the  day  we  went  out  as  models;  at  night  we  danced  tarantellas  in 
the  theatre  and  sang  Neapolitan  songs.  Then  Leonardo  gave 
my  father  five  hundred  lire  to  let  me  come  to  live  with  him. 

Prince  Michael. — But  Imperia!     This  is  horrible! 

Imperia.- — It  is  the  truth.  What  was  my  father  to  do?  He 
had  to  live  somehow. 


i44  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Prince  Michael. — How  old  is  this  daughter? 

Imperia. — Fourteen.     I  was  fifteen  when  she  was  born. 

Prince  Michael. — Where  has  she  been  all  these  years? 

Imperia. — At  home  with  my  parents. 

Prince  Michael. — Has  it  never  occurred  to  you  to  bring  her 
here? 

Imperia. — Why  should  I?  I  always  sent  her  money,  so  she 
wanted  for  nothing.  Besides  she  was  better  off  there.  I  should 
have  liked  to  see  her,  to  have  returned  home — oh,  so  often!  But 
to  bring  her  here  .  . 

Prince  Michael. — What  do  you  mean  to  do  now? 

Imperia. — They  have  just  written  me  that  she  has  fallen  in 
love. 

Prince  Michael. — At  fourteen?     Admirable  precocity! 

Imperia. — No,  not  in  Italy.  We  are  not  like  you  are.  It 
was  a  young  fellow  who  danced  in  the  theatre  with  her.  She  ran 
off  with  him. 

Prince  Michael. — Excellent! 

Imperia. — And  now  they  are  appearing  together  at  Mr. 
Jacob's.  Donina — her  name  is  Donina;  that  was  my  name  at 
home — is  the  star  of  the  troupe.  She  is  not  beautiful,  but  she  is 
attractive.  Oh,  so  attractive! — very  much  as  I  was — as  I  might 
have  been.  And  the  boy  is  a  fine  strapping  fellow,  hello,  bello! 
He  looks  like  one  of  the  Madonna's  angels,  but  they  say  he  is  a 
rogue.  All  the  girls  are  mad  over  him  and  Donina  is  jealous. 
Oh,  so  jealous!  As  jealous  as  I  was,  as  I  should  have  been! 

Prince  Michael. — But  Imperia!  It  makes  my  blood  run  cold 
to  hear  you.  Do  you  consent  to  this?  Do  you  abet  it? 

Imperia. — Abet  what?  That  my  daughter  should  love  a 
man,  that  she  should  be  happy  loving  and  suffering  for  him? 
That  is  life.  I  asked  her:  Would  you  like  to  come  and  live  with 
me  in  a  beautiful  villa,  bella,  bella! — and  to  have  clothes  like 
these?  But  she  wouldn't;  she  didn't  want  to.  It  was  only 
natural.  She  had  no  affection  for  me. 

Prince  Michael. — No  affection  for  her  mother?  This  is 
horrible. 

Imperia. — It  is  the  truth.  Why  should  she  love  me?  I 
left  her  when  she  was  two  years  old.  She  knew  that  I  was  alive 
somewhere,  a  great  way  off,  that  I  sent  her  presents  and  kisses, 
sometimes — in  my  letters.  My  brothers  told  her  terrible  things 
about  me;  so  did  my  parents.  No  wonder!  What  I  was  able  to 
send  seemed  little  enough  to  them. 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  145 

Prince  Michael. — Is  it  possible  to  live  like  this? 

Imperia. — Why  not?  So  long  as  we  love.  If  anything 
happens  to  one  of  us,  we  stand  together  on  the  instant  for  ven- 
geance, without  one  thought  of  forgiveness,  even  after  years. 
But  how  is  it  with  you?  Have  you  any  affection?  It  is  im- 
possible to  insult  you.  If  one  could,  you  would  never  take  to 
blows.  Nobody  gives  you  five  hundred  lire  when  he  falls  in  love 
with  or  wants  to  marry  your  child.  Nothing  appears  to  you  as 
it  really  is — nothing  that  you  think,  nothing  that  you  say,  nothing 
that  you  feel,  nothing  that  you  do.  But  with  us  it  is  all  truth, 
and  that  is  the  reason  it  seems  so  evil. 

Prince  Michael. — It  may  be  so.  We  face  the  truth  too  sel- 
dom in  our  lives. 

Imperia. — Now  I  am  going  to  leave  you.  I  am  going  to  see 
my  child. 

Prince  Michael. — I  should  like  to  see  her  too.  I  will  meet 
you  there. 

Imperia. — But  you  must  not  let  yourself  be  known. 

Prince  Michael. — Why  not? 

Imperia. — She  knows  that  I  am  living  with  a  Prince,  and  she 
imagines  that  he  is  like  a  prince  in  a  fairy  tale — hello,  bellol 

Prince  Michael. — And  she  would  be  disappointed?  Isn't 
it  so?  How  amiable! 

Imperia. — It  is  the  truth.  She  is — as  I  was.  All  she  under- 
stands is  love — like  his.  Youth  and  happiness  and  joy! 

CURTAIN 
THE  SECOND  TABLEAU 

A  cafe  in  a  Music  Hall,  representing  a  grotto,  fantastically  dec- 
orated. Tables  and  chairs  on  both  sides.  Men  and  women  are 
seated  at  the  tables,  smoking  and  taking  refreshments.  Waiters 
pass  in  and  out  continually.  At  the  back  an  orchestra  of  gypsies. 

MR.  JACOB  stands  talking  with  an  ARTIST;  Runu-SAHiB,  at  a 
table;  drinks  enormously. 

Jacob  (To  the  ARTIST). — But  this?  What  do  you  think  of 
this?  Allow  me.  Here  is  the  best  point  of  view. 

Artist. — Marvellous !     Magical ! 

Jacob. — You  arc  surprised  to  see  this,  eh?  Now  what  do 
you  say?  Pardon,  allow  me.  Here  is  another  point  of  view. 

Artist. — Marvellous !     Magical ! 


146  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Jacob. — My  own  idea!  It  didn't  occur  to  me  in  a  moment. 
Ideas  like  this  don't  occur  every  day.  The  entire  cafe  converted 
into  a  grotto — rest  for  the  body,  recreation  for  the  soul  after  the 
brilliancy  of  the  spectacle.  In  all  Europe,  in  all  America,  there 
is  nothing  to  equal  it.  It  is  the  most  magnificent  music  hall  in 
the  world.  Four  million  francs  invested  in  it.  You  may  say  so 
in  your  paper. 

Artist. — In  my  paper?     Oh,  Mr.  Jacob,  I  am  not  a  reporter! 

Jacob. — What?  You  are  not  the  correspondent  of  the 
Dramatic  Courier  of  Milan,  of  the  Genoa  Manager's  Monitor! 

Artist. — I  did  not  say — 

Jacob. — But  the  card  you  sent  into  the  office  ? 

Artist. — Was  not  mine — a  mistake.  I  am  an  artist,  a  per- 
former. I  come  to  make  you  a  great,  an  extraordinary  proposi- 
tion. 

Jacob. — An  extraordinary  proposition? 

Artist. — Yes.     To  engage  me.     I  have  references. 

Jacob. — And  is  this  what  you  have  kept  me  talking  two  hours 
for,  showing  you  my  theatre?  Wasting  my  time!  Andate  al 
diavolo!  Morte  de  un  cane!  Mais  fichez  moi  la  paix  toute  de  suite! 
Wasting  my  time!  Valuable  time! 

Artist. — Mr.  Jacob!     Mr.  Jacob! 

(MR.  JACOB  rushes  out,  followed  by  the  ARTIST.) 

Ruhu-Sahib  (Calling  a  Waiter). — Is  the  first  part  over  yet? 

Waiter. — Just  over.     Don't  you  see  the  people  coming  out? 

Ruhu-Sahib. — Take  this  bottle  away;  bring  another  bottle. 
This  time  I  pay  myself.  No  go  on  the  bill  of  Madame. 

Waiter. — Madame  says  she  will  pay  for  no  more  bottles  after 
that  row  you  had  yesterday. 

Ruhu-Sahib. — I  pay  myself.  Bring  another  bottle.  Don't 
talk  so  much.  I  break  your  head. 

Waiter. — Yes,  sir. 

Esther. — Will  you  look  at  the  elephant-driver? 

Juliette. — He's  a  case. 

Esther. — To  add  to  your  collection? 

Juliette. — Not  for  mine;  he's  too  much  for  me. 

(TOBACCO  and  JENNY  enter.) 

Esther. — Here's  Tobacco,  the  nigger  clown.  I  have  to 
laugh.  He  looks  like  a  monkey. 

Juliette. — Is  that  his  wife? 

Esther. — Yes;  she's  English.     The  funnyr  thing  is,  though, 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  147 

they  are  married.     They  love  each  other,  oh,  so  much!     They 
have  seven  children. 

Juliette. — Blondes  ? 

Esther. — Not  so  far;  all  like  their  father.  My!  But  it's 
dull  tonight. 

Juliette. — There's  nobody  here  but  women. 

Jenny  (To  TOBACCO). — Did  you  stop  at  the  bank? 

Tobacco. — I  certainly  did.  (Making  notes  in  a  pocket  book.) 
Let  me  see  how  we  come  out.  I  put  five  thousand  francs  in  Turks. 
If  the  market  is  as  good  as  it  was  last  week,  we  clear  a  hundred 
francs. 

Jenny. — That's  handsome. 

Tobacco. — I  might  get  a  new  dress  for  the  act. 

Jenny. — Throwing  your  money  away,  eh?  What  do  you 
want  a  new  dress  for?  Don't  you  think  you  look  funny  unless 
you  wear  silk? 

Tobacco. — That  Russian  has  a  new  suit  every  night. 

Jenny. — Yes,  and  people  aren't  laughing  at  him  any  more  on 
account  of  his  clothes.  An  artist  like  you  is  not  in  the  same  class 
with  that  Russian.  Mr.  Jacob  is  an  idiot  if  he  pays  that  man 
six  thousand  francs. 

Tobacco. — Mr.  Jacob  won't  pay  me  ten  thousand.  Now 
he  wants  to  throw  me  out,  but  the  public  will  only  laugh  at  To- 
bacco. There  is  only  one  Tobacco.  So  he  puts  the  Russian  in 
the  best  place  in  the  second  half  and  I  am  down  in  the  first  for 
the  third  number.  And  the  audience  comes  early  to  see  me  and 
they  go  home  early  so  as  not  to  see  the  Russian.  The  public  are 
the  ones  who  pay  the  artists;  the  managers  don't  pay  them.  An 
artist  is  not  able  to  name  his  own  figure. 

Jenny. — Mr.  Jacob  is  a  rogue.  He  behaves  as  if  this  were  a 
bar-room. 

(CoRNAC  enters.) 

Cornac. — Mr.  Ruhu!  Mr.  Ruhu!  Hurry  up!  Come  quick! 
Nero  very  excited.  Break  the  bar  of  his  cage.  No  let  us  put  on 
the  howdah. 

Ruhu-Sahib. — What's  the  matter?     Hurry    up?     Too  damn 
hot!     Waiter!     Give  him   some  beer.     And   I   want  some   beer. 
Cornac. — Madame  says  elephants  must  not  drink  beer. 
Ruhu-Sahib. — Madame  says  too  much  so  as  not  to  pay  for  the 
beer.     I  pay  for  the  beer.     A  bottle  for  me,  a  barrel  for  the  ele- 
phants! 

(MR.  JACOB  enters.) 


i48  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Jacob. — Ruhu!  Ruhu!  One  of  the  elephants  has  broken 
loose.  He  has  smashed  the  bars  of  his  cage.  Two  hundred 
francs!  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  he  won't  perform. 

Ruhu-Sahib. — He  will,  he  will  perform.  Poor  beast!  He  do 
no  harm.  He  is  a  gentle  animal. 

Jacob. — If  you  don't  hurry  and  do  something  to  the  brute— 

Ruhu-Sahib. — Nero  harm  no  one.  You  don't  know  him.  I 
know  him.  Wait!  He  is  the  gentlest  of  the  seven. 

Jacob. — And  don't  drink  so  much.  The  people  see  how  you 
are,  and  so  do  the  elephants. 

Ruhu-Sahib. — What  do  they  see?  I  know  what  they  see; 
and  I  know  what  the  elephants  see.  I  drink,  oh,  I  drink!  But  I 
know  what  I  drink. 

Jacob. — Ma  andate  al  diavolo!     Damn  rascal! 

(RosiNA  and  PEPITA  detain  MR.  JACOB.) 

Rosina. — You  are  not  angry,  Mr.  Jacob? 

Jacob. — That  Hindoo  savage  costs  me  twelve  thousand 
francs  besides  the  feed  of  his  animals!  And  don't  his  animals 
feed!  And  the  public  will  have  none  of  them;  seen  once,  seen  for 
always.  A  fine  piece  of  business!  Bah!  Business?  People 
see  the  audience,  then  they  see  me;  they  say:  "Ah!  Mr.  Jacob! 
Fortunate  man!  Theatre  full,  receipts  enormous,  le  maximum 
tons  les  soirs."  But  they  don't  see  behind  the  scenes;  they  don't 
know  what  artists  are;  they  don't  understand  management, 
business 

Rosina.—  Oh  now,  please  don't  be  angry,  Mr.  Jacob!  Not 
when  I  want  to  ask  you  a  favor. 

Jacob. — Favor?     Always  favors! 

Rosina. — It's  for  my  friend. 

Pepita. — Monsieur 

Rosina. — I  thought  maybe  you  might  let  her  have  a  pass  for 
the  season. 

Jacob. — Mon  d'uul  A  girl  like  her?  Is  it  possible  she  can't 
get  anybody  to  pay  her  way  in? 

Rosina. — If  it  wasn't  for  us,  there  wouldn't  be  anybody  here, 
Mr.  Jacob. 

Jacob. — On  the  contrary,  you  drive  decent  people  away; 
people  who — 

Rosina. — When  have  we  had  so  many  princes  as  this  year? 
I  know  you  will,  eh,  Mr.  Jacob? 

Jacob. — Well,  since  she's  a  friend  of  yours.  Go  on  into  the 
office;  but  tell  her  to  take  more  pains  with  her  toilette. 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  149 

Rosina. — She's  just  got  in;  her  trunk  hasn't  come  yet.  I'll 
look  out  for  her. 

Jacob. — Where  does  your  friend  come  from? 

Rosina. — From  Marseilles. 

Jacob. — Ah!  From  Marseilles?  Tell  her  not  to  say  she's 
from  Marseilles.  It's  not  a  recommendation. 

Rosina. — She  don't  look  very  Parisian  either.  She  might  be 
a  Spaniard  .  .  . 

Jacob. — That  Spanish  business  has  been  done  to  death; 
however,  anything  is  better  than  Marseilles.  The  thing  is  to 
have  personality,  to  be  some  one;  not  to  be  just  like  every  one  else. 
There  are  so  many!  However,  there  is  something  in  her  face. 
She  may  get  on,  though  it  is  difficult.  But  there  is  no  reason  to 
be  discouraged.  Good  luck,  girls!  Good  luck!  I  can't  wait; 
I'm  so  busy. 

Rosina. — Thanks,  Mr.  Jacob. 

Pepita. — Thanks. 

(PRINCE  FLORENCIO  and  HARRY  LUCENTI  have  entered  during 
the  conversation,  and  seat  themselves  at  one  of  the  tables.} 

Rosina. — I  told  you  it  would  be  easy.  Look!  A  Prince! 
The  Prince  of  Suabia. 

Pepita. — Do  you  get  many  princes  here? 

Rosina. — Very  few — real  ones.     (They  go  out  talking.} 

Jacob  (To  the  PRINCE). — Ah!  Your  Highness!  This  is  a 
great  honor  to  me  and  to  my  theatre.  At  your  Highness's  orders. 
Signor!  Ah!  I  forgot.  Next  week  new  and  extraordinary 
attractions.  One  number  alone  twrenty  thousand  francs!  Busi- 
ness is  becoming  more  difficult,  prices  continually  going  up. 
Your  Highness  .  .  .  (Backs  off,  bowing.} 

Harry  Lucenti. — Delightful  old  scamp,  Mr.  Jacob. 

Prince  Florcncio. — He  must  lead  a  gay  life  with  his  artists. 

MR.  JACOB  goes  up  to  MME.  JENNY,  IT/JO  is  sitting  at  a  table, 
knitting  busily.} 

Jacob. — But  Mme.  Jenny,  must  we  quarrel  always: 

Jenny.— \V\\y,  Mr.  Jacob? 

Jacob. — Is  this  a  place  for  you  to  do  your  knitting? 

Jenny. — I  have  to  work  for  the  children.  What  harm  is 
there  in  it? 

Jacob. — You  might  cook  your  ir.cals  here  if  you  like. 

Jenny. — Ye?,  it's  better  to  do — what  the  others  do. 

Jacob. — It's  all  my  fault  for  allowing  the  artists  to  mix  with 
the  public. 


1 50  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Tobacco. — Artists.     Does  he  mean  me? 

Jenny. — It's  easy  to  see  that  you're  not  accustomed  to 
dealing  with  artists. 

Jacob. — I  am  not  accustomed  to  dealing  with  artists? 

Tobacco. — No.  This  isn't  a  theatre;  this  isn't  a  circus,  it's 
a  ... 

Jenny  (Pointing  to  the  cocottes). — Those  are  the  artists  you 
want  here. 

Jacob. — My  business  is  to  please  the  public. 

Tobacco. — Well,  don't  I  please  the  public?  Here!  Here! 
(Squaring  off  to  strike  him.  Several  interfere.} 

Some. — Mr.  Jacob! 

Others. — Tobacco !     Messieurs ! 

(CoRNAC  enters  running.} 

Cornac. — Mr.  Ruhu!  Mr.  Ruhu!  Nero  run  away!  He 
break  everything! 

Ruhu-Sahib. — Can't  they  let  him  alone?  Give  him  a  chance. 
Go  on !  What  more  do  they  want?  (Saunters  out,  after  drinking, 
-eery  deliberately.} 

(The  bell  rings.} 

Jacob. — And  I  waste  my  time,  valuable  time!  The  second 
part — Sottes!  Stupid  people! 

(MR.  JACOB  runs  out.} 

Tobacco.— That  settles  it;  I'm  through.  I  shan't  stay  in 
this  place  another  day.  I'm  through,  I  tell  you. 

(MME.  LELIA  enters.     She  carries  a  large  handbag.} 

Lelia. — Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Mr.  Tobacco?  Have  you 
been  fighting  with  Mr.  Jacob?  He  is  an  idiot  to  fight  with  you. 
How  are  you,  Mme.  Jenny?  How  are  the  little  ones? 

Jenny. — Entirely  too  healthy  for  their  mother.  What  they 
don't  eat  they  break.  We  cannot  keep  a  thing  in  the  house. 

Lelia. — I  should  think  you  would  be  glad  they  are  well  and 
strong;  some  day  they  will  grow  up  and  earn  money. 

Tobacco. — Yes,  they're  pretty  fine  tumblers  as  it  is — better 
than  the  Sheffers  already. 

Jenny. — How  is  your  little  one,  Mme.  Lelia? 

Lelia. — She  is  not  well;  only  so-so.  I  had  to  put  her  on  the 
bottle.  You  see  with  my  work  on  the  wire,  it  was  impossible — 

Jenny. — I  brought  up  all  seven  of  mine  on  the  bott  e.  An 
artist  can  do  nothing  else  nowadays,  with  all  the  demands  on  her 
time.  The  first  thing  you  know,  they  eat  everything. 

Lelia. — What  did  Mr.  Jacob  say? 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  151 

Jenny. — He  didn't  like  my  knitting  here — a  little  jacket  for 
my  Alex. 

Lelia. — Last  night  he  told  me  this  hat  wasn't  presentable — 
a  hat  that  cost  me  fifteen  francs  in  Paris  the  year  of  the  exposition. 
This  is  no  place  for  artists,  for  decent  people. 

Tobacco. — This  isn't  a  circus.  After  a  man  has  worked  at 
Rentz's  in  Vienna,  at  Wulf's  in  Berlin  or  the  Corradine  in  Rome— 
those  are  dignified  establishments.  There  an  artist  is  an  artist. 

Lelia. — It  used  to  be  so,  Mr.  Tobacco,  but  now  they  are  all 
the  same.  All  you  need  is  a  machine;  then  you  turn  on  the 
current,  and  you  have  an  artist.  The  result  is  the  real  artists 
have  to  work  for  nothing.  I  think  my  husband  is  a  genius  as  a 
contortionist. 

Tobacco. — No  one  could  go  farther  than  that. 

Lelia. — And  on  the  wire,  without  vanity,  I  go  myself  as  far 
as  anybody.  I  go  further.  I  stand  on  my  head  with  a  pirouette 
and  a  double  flim-flam;  I  am  the  only  woman  in  Europe  who  dares 
to  do  it. 

Tobacco. — No  more  could  be  asked. 

Lelia. — Are  you  coming  in  to  see  the  show? 

Jenny. — Yes.  My  husband  wants  to  take  a  look  at  the  Rus- 
sian. He's  got  to  pick  up  a  few  new  tricks. 

Lelia. — No!     Is  it  possible,  Mr.  Tobacco?     You  are  joking. 

Tobacco. — Mr.  Jacob  thinks  that  Russian  is  funny.     Ha,  ha! 

Lelia. — I  am  waiting  for  my  husband.  Kisses  to  the  little 
ones,  Mme.  Jenny. 

Jenny. — And  to  yours  from  me,  Mme.  Lelia.  (TOBACCO 
and  JENNY  go  out.] 

(NuNU  and  TOMMY  enter.} 

Tommy. — There  they  are.     See? 

Nunu.- — I  told  you  they'd  be  here.  The  Prince  never  goes 
behind. 

Tommy. — Are  you  going  to  speak  to  them? 

Nunu. — Wait  till  they  call  us.  You  know  the  Prince?  Sit 
down.  Have  something?  (They  sit  down.} 

Tommy.— Do  we  eat  there  tonight? 

Nunu. — Yes. 

Tommy. — Donina  too? 

Nunu. — Donina's  a  fool;  she's  crazy.  She  don't  want  to 
come.  She's  jealous  of  my  running  around. 

Tommy. — Why  don't  she  take  on  some  one  herself? 


1 52  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Nunu. — She?  If  she  only  would!     The  Prince,  say     .     .     . 
Our  fortune  would  be  made! 

Tommy. — Why  don't  you  make  her? 

Nunu. — Make  her?  You  don't  know  her.  You  talk  like  a 
fool.  She  wouldn't  do  it;  but  she  will  out  of  jealousy.  Tell  her 
I  am  out  with  another  woman,  and  she'd  go  if  it  was  to  hell,  and 
kick  the  hat  off  the  devil. 

Tommy. — What  does  the  Prince  want  with  Donina? 

Nunu. — How  do  I  know?  He's  got  the  notion;  I'm  tired  of 
her  and  I  need  the  money.  I  need  a  lot  of  money,  so  I  can  leave 
this  life  and  settle  down  like  a  decent  fellow.  The  Prince  is  like 
the  rest  of  them;  he  doesn't  know  what  he  wants. 

Tommy. — He  doesn't?  Did  you  hear  what  happened  to  Fred 
with  the  Countess?  She  gave  him  money  at  first  and  jewels; 
now  she  is  tired  of  him  and  says  it  was  blackmail.  She  swears 
she'll  call  in  the  police. 

Nunu. — Police?  He's  a  fool  if  he  stands  for  that.  If  I 
once  get  my  hands  on  the  Prince,  I  can  tell  you  he  won't  call  in 
the  police. 

Tommy. — The  Prince?     Why  not? 

Nunu. — You  idiot!  Donina's  a  minor;  she's  under  age.  I 
know  the  law.  The  Prince  can't  stand  for  a  row.  Don't  you  see  ? 

Tommy. — What's  the  difference?  If  I  was  a  Prince  I 
wouldn't  give  a  damn  what  I  stood  for. 

Nunu. — Neither  would  I.  But  that's  the  way  these  people 
are.  They  want  to  do  as  they  please,  and  then  they  don't 
want  anybody  to  know  about  it.  That's  what  costs  the  money. 

Tommy. — You  bet;  but  these  fellows  always  have  some  one 
around.  They  mayn't  look  it  ... 

Nunu.—  Not  this  time.  Listen!  They  want  to  get  him  in  a 
fix.  Some  of  those  chaps  were  talking  to  me — they  saw  me  with 
him.  There's  a  party  in  his  country  that  wants  to  make  him 
Emperor.  That's  the  reason  they  sent  him  away. 

Tommy. — Oho!     So  you  are  a  conspirator? 

Nunu. — I?  What  do  I  care?  I  want  the  money,  that's  all 
we  can  get  out  of  it.  Let  him  be  Emperor  if  he  wants  to.  It's 
nothing  to  me;  I  want  to  give  up  this  life  and  go  home  and  marry 
a  decent  girl — a  girl  that's  straight.  Her  father  won't  have  me 
though.  He  says  I'm  no  good;  but  when  he  sees  I  have  money, 
that  I  amount  to  something — 

Tommy. — But  I  thought  Donina — 

Nunu.—  Donina?     I  tell  you  she's  the  one  who's  in  love  with 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  153 

me;  I  let  her  like  the  rest.  You  know  all  these  actresses  are  good 
for:  roba  di  principi. 

Tommy. — But  I  thought  that  you  loved  her,  that  you  were 
happy  ? 

Nunu. — A  man  has  to  live  somehow,  doesn't  he? — with  his 
eye  on  something  else,  more  or  less  far  away  ?  Isn't  that  the  way 
that  you  live? 

Tommy. — Yes.  But  I  am  tied  up  with  a  wife  and  the  boy. 
What  have  I  to  look  forward  to? 

Nunu. — Nothing,  for  yourself;  but  you  can  hope  that  your 
children  won't  be  like  you — that  they  will  amount  to  something. 

Tommy. — Yes 

Nunu. — Well,  there  you  are. 

Esther. — Which  is  the  Prince? 

Juliette. — The  youngest — the  one  who  doesn't  talk.  He 
never  talks.  Will  you  look  at  that? 

(RosiNA  and  PEPITA  have  seated  themselves  meanwhile  at  the 
PRINCE'S  table. )They' re  taking  a  chance.  Won't  they  be  set  up? 

Esther. — What  does  the  Prince  come  here  for,  anyway? 

Juliette. — It's  the  actresses.  That  Englishman  is  his  secre- 
tary; he  always  brings  him  along.  They're  to  have  supper  to- 
night— the  real  thing — in  a  sort  of  cave;  but  tough!  Awful! 

(RosiNA  and  PEPITA,  who  have  been  sitting  with  the  PRINCE 
get  up  and  move  away.) 

Est her.— Look !  They  are  blushing.  And  they  are  laughing 
at  them! 

Juliette. — I'll  give  them  a  pinch  as  they  go  out. 

Esther. — No.  Don't  make  a  scene.  Mr.  Jacob  will  take 
up  your  pass. 

Prince  Florencio. — Ah,  Harry,  I  am  bored  to  death!  I  am 
sick.  What  will  you  find  for  me  to  do  next? 

Harry  Lucenti. — March  upon  Suabia,  proclaim  yourself 
Emperor,  and  declare  war  against  the  world. 

Prince  Florencio. — Silence,  imperalist  poet! 

Harry  Lucenti. — Why  not?  I  am  an  Emperor  myself.  You 
remember  what  Hamlet  says?  "I  could  be  bounded  in  a  nut- 
shell and  count  myself  king  of  infinite  space." 

Prince  Florencio. — But  he  had  bad  dreams. 

Harry  Lucenti. — I  do  not;  I  reign  within  my  nutshell.  I 
have  founded  an  empire  of  myself,  at  war  with  all  the  world.  My 
spirit  is  an  island  more  impregnable  than  the  cliffs  of  my  country. 

Prince  Florencio. — How  did  you  manage  it? 


154  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Harry  Lucenti. — By  making  myself  hated  by  everybody. 
Do  you  know  to  what  the  weaknesses,  the  compromises,  the  petty 
cowardices  of  human  nature  are  due?  They  are  the  result  of 
kindness,  of  sympathy.  We  attribute  to  others  virtues  which 
they  do  not  possess,  and  then,  so  as  to  meet  them  on  an  equal 
footing,  we  are  obliged  to  pretend  to  virtues  which  we  do  not 
possess. 

Prince  Florenzio. — A  paradox,  I  suppose?  Well,  you  haven't 
made  yourself  hated  by  me. 

Harry  Lucenti. — Not  yet.  Because  I  have  never  told  you 
the  truth. 

Prince  Florencio. — Why  not  bring  yourself  to  it?  You  may 
if  you  like. 

Harry  Lucenti. — The  truth?  You  poor  devil  of  a  Prince, 
impotent,  ridiculous,  and  rotten  to  the  core! 

Prince  Florencio. — Bah!     Hand  me  the  whiskey! 

Harry  Lucenti. — The  truth,  Florencio,  it  is  the  truth.  Your 
escapades!  Your  vices!  You  imagine  that  you  are  scandalizing 
the  world  when  you  are  only  shocking  the  old  ladies  of  Suabia. 
Your  bacchantes  are  all  hired  by  the  restaurant  at  five  hundred 
francs,  everything  included.  You  will  find  them  on  the  bill — 
little  runaway  school  girls,  whose  heads  have  been  turned  by 
reading  a  couple  of  silly  novels.  The  depths  of  hell  and  infamy 
into  which  you  descend  with  trembling  are  these! — I  can  see  you 
now.  Hail,  Emperor!  Elagabalus!  Child  of  the  sun! 

Prince  Florencio. — Is  that  all?  You  don't  suppose  you  can 
make  me  hate  you  with  a  few  simple  truths  like  that?  The 
times  are  not  propitious  to  Neros  or  Elagabaluses.  Neither  do 
they  produce  Shakespeares,  though  you  may  both  have  written 
the  same  sonnets.  There  is  one,  too,  copied  from  the  Italian  of 
the  seventeenth  century— 

Harry  Lucenti  (Greatly  incensed). — That's  a  lie!  I  steal 
from  no  man.  These  stories  were  invented  by  my  detractors. 
I  proved  that  Italian  sonnet  was  a  forgery,  made  up  to  annoy  me. 
I  proved  it,  and  nobody  believed  me.  Only  a  fool  would  repeat 
that  story.  And  you  are  a  fool,  too,  if  you  say  so. 

Prince  Florencio  (Laughing). — My  dear  Harry,  you  see  how 
much  easier  it  is  to  provoke  a  poet  with  the  truth,  than  an  Em- 
peror. 

Harry  Lucenti. — Blockhead!  (The  PRINCE  rises  and  moves 
over  toward  NUNU  and  TOMMY.) 

Prince  Florencio. — Come,  my  dear  Harry.     Why  not  arrange 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  155 

something  diabolic  for  this  evening,  something  grandiose?  Sure- 
ly you  have  credit  for  more  than  five  hundred  francs.  Hello, 
Nunu!  Hello,  Tommy! 

Nunu. — Highness ! 

Prince  Florencio. — Sit  down.  Put  on  your  hats.  Have 
you  been  on  yet? 

Nunu. — No;  ours  is  next  to  the  last  number.  We  were 
waiting  for  you. 

Prince  Florencio. — Will  everybody  be  there?  And  your 
Donina? 

Nunu. — Donina     . 

Prince  Florencio. — I  told  you  that  you  didn't  want  her  to 
come.  Now  I  see  I  was  right.  You  want  to  pass  yourself  off 
for  a  cynic.  "Piccola  Donina!"  You  say,  "Bah!  m'  infishchio. 
I  am  tired  of  her!"  And  all  the  while  you  love  her  and  mean  to 
keep  her  for  yourself. 

Nunu. — No,  Your  Highness,  she  is  the  one  who  is  in  love 
with  me.  You  know  that.  (His  eye  is  attracted  by  a  ring  on  the 
PRINCE'S  finger.}  What  a  magnificent  ring!  May  I  see  it? 

Prince  Florencio. — Are  you  fond  of  jewels? 

Nunu. — Am  I  ? 

Prince  Florencio  (His  eye  lighting  upon  one  of  NUNU'S). — So 
I  see.  , 

Nunu.—  Oh,  that's  only  glass!  At  night  with  the  lights  it's 
all  right — when  a  man  can't  afford  anything  else.  What  is  this 
stone  ? 

Prince  Florencio. — A  ruby.     This  is  an  opal. 

Tommy. — Opals  are  bad  luck. 

Prince  Florencio. — Not  to  me;  to  others,  pe-rhaps.  Would 
you  be  afraid  to  wear  it?  (Tossing  him  the  ring.} 

Tommy. — I  should  say  not!  (Putting  on  the  ring.}  Thanks, 
Your  Highness!  Although,  I  shan't  have  it  long.  Hard  times 
come  with  us;  that  will  be  the  bad  luck. 

Nunu  (offended}. — Tommy  is  your  friend  now. 

Prince  Florencio. — And  you  arc  not;  I  have  nothing  for  you. 
We  are  enemies. 

Nunu. — But  suppose  I  have  a  surprise  for  you  tonight? 

Prince  Florencio. — Then  I  shall  give  you  a  ring  which  will 
make  all  your  friends  die  of  envy. 

Nunu.—  Oh!     Bella! 

Prince  Florencio.- — And  other  things  which  I  know  you  want 
besides. 


156  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

(The  PRINCE  takes  a  gold  cigarette  case  from  his  pocket  and 
offers  cigarettes^} 

Nunu. — Another!  Gold  too  .  .  .  everything  is  gold. 
But  this  one  has  jewels  .  .  .  Is  this  your  name? 

Prince  Florencio. — No.  Some  English  verses,  that  is  all. 
Keep  it,  Nunu. 

Nunu. — Your  Highness ! 

Prince  Florencio. — Keep  it,  I  tell  you. 

Nunu. — Oh,  bella!  Look  Tommy!  Brilliants;  and  these 
are  like  yours. 

Tommy. — Rubies ! 

Nunu. — Did  you  say  they  were  verses? 

(Reading)  "O  you  the  master-mistress" — I  can't  read  any 
more. 

Harry  Lucenti. — You  won't  be  any  worse  off. 

Nunu. — Here  come  Donina  and  Zaida. 

Harry  Lucenti. — That  Arab  girl?  At  least  that  is  what  she 
calls  herself. 

Nunu. — It's  a  fact  though.  She's  from  Constantina  in 
Algiers.  She's  a  Jewess.  She  did  Oriental  dances;  then  her 
manager  turned  her  over  to  ours,  so  since  then  she  has  been 
dancing  with  us.  She'd  pass  for  a  Neapolitan. 

Prince  Florencio. — I  thought  she  was  one. 

Nunu. — She's  always  crying — that  is  her  sort.  She  cries 
over  everything. 

Prince  Florencio. — Who  pays  the  bills? 

Nunu. — No  one;  she  isn't  that  way.  She  likes  me  though, 
pretty  well;  such  a  friend  of  Donina's  that  if  I  say  anything,  she's 
up  in  a  minute.  She's  in  love  with  Donina,  daft  over  her.  She's 
fierce  as  a  lion! 

Harry  Lucenti. — Pretty  soon  it  will  be  love  all  around  through 
the  triangle. 

Nunu. — No,  she's  a  lamb. 

Prince  Florencio. — No  wonder,  living  with  you.  We  shall 
meet  you  then  later.  Do  you  go  straight  from  here? 

Nunu. — Just  as  we  are;  it's  all  arranged. 

Prince  Florencio. — Nobody  will  be  missing? 

Nunu. — No,  I'll  show  you  who's  your  friend. 

Prince  Florencio. — Good-bye.     Come  along,  Harry. 

(Discovering  IMPERIA,  who  has  entered  a  few  moments  pre- 
viously, and  is  seated  with  DONINA  and  ZAIDA.) 

Ah!     Imperial     Harry,  do  you  see? 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  157 

(NuNU  and  TOMMY  go  over  to  the  group  of  women.  DONINA 
gets  up  and  begins  to  dispute  with  NUNU,  somewhat  apart  from  the 
others.} 

Harry  Lucenti. — Yes,  and  I  know  the  attraction:  an  o'd 
friendship  with  Donina's  mother,  a  purely  sisterly  affair.  They 
belonged  to  the  same  troupe.  She  heard  the  girl  was  playing 
here  so  she  dropped  in  to  see  her;  now  she  has  dropped  in  again. 
At  least  this  is  official. 

Prince  Florencio. — My  uncle  cannot  know  that  she  comes 
to  this  place;  he  would  not  consider  it  respectable  in  his  mistress. 
We  must  see  that  he  does  know. 

Harry  Lucenti. — Of  course!  Telling  unpleasant  truths  is 
always  a  duty. 

(The  PRINCE  and  HARRY  LUCENTI  go  out.} 

Nunu  (To  DONINA). — Did  you  see  who  I  was  talking  to? 

Donina. — Yes,  and  I  saw  you  with  her  on  the  stage.  Haven't 
I  eyes?  Can't  I  see?  There's  nobody  else  left;  it  was  that 
Japanese  woman  as  long  as  her  husband  was  here  with  his  act. 
I  know  there's  a  supper  tonight  too;  but  you  haven't  counted  on 
me. 

Nunu. — But  we  have  though;  you're  invited. 

Donina. — I  am,  am  I?  So  that  before  my  very  eyes — Oh!  I 
don't  mind  so  much  your  fooling  with  other  girls,  hugging  them 
and  kissing  them.  It  isn't  that.  But  when  anybody  tries  it  on 
me  you  stand  there  and  laugh.  You  consent  to  it. 

Nunu. — You're  a  fool.  (He  takes  the  case  out  of  his  pocket  and 
lights  a  cigarette.} 

Donina  (Discovering  the  case}. — Whose  is  that?  Who  gave 
that  to  you?  What  does  it  say? 

Nunu. — Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Donina  (Furious,  stamping  on  the  box}. — There!  Now  it 
doesn't  say  anything.  No,  and  it  won't  say  anything  either. 
And  I'd  do  the  same  to  you,  too,  or  to  anybody! 

Nunu. — Donina!  What  arc  you  doing?  You've  ruined  it. 
I  tell  you — (Threatening  her.} 

Imperia  and  Zaida  (Interfering). — No,  no,  Nunu! 

Nunu. — If  we  weren't  in  this  place — 

Donina. — Yes,  strike  me!  Kill  me!  Anything  better  than 
this! 

Zaida  (Throwing  her  arms  about  her}. — Donina!  Poor 
Donina! 

Nunu. — Come    along,    Tommy,    and    get    dressed.     Come 


158  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

along!     She'll  be  there  all  right. 

(NuNU  and  TOMMY  go  out.} 

Zaida. — You  mustn't  cry — not  before  all  these  people. 
Don't  let  them  see. 

Donina. — What  do  I  care? 

Imperia. — Don't  you  want  to  come  with  me? 

Donina. — No,  I  must  stay  with  him,  even  if  he  kills  me! 
He  didn't  use  to  be  like  this;  he  used  to  love  me.  Of  course  he 
went  with  other  girls,  I  know  that,  but  I  was  always  his  Donina. 
I  was  always  first,  the  only  one  among  the  rest.  I  was  so  proud 
to  have  them  love  him,  and  to  think  that  after  he  had  played 
with  them  and  laughed  in  their  faces,  he  would  come  back  again 
to  me,  always  to  me,  without  ever  haying  been  able  to  forget. 
But  it  is  not  the  same  now.  He  has  something  back  in  his 
mind,  something  evil.  It  isn't  that  he  deceives  me;  it's  that  he 
wants  me  to  know  it.  And  since  these  men  came — 

Zaida. — Nunu  is  bad;  he  is  all  bad  now.  I  loved  him  before 
and  Donina  wasn't  jealous.  She  knew  it  was  on  her  account — 
it  was  just  from  the  heart;  I  was  like  their  sister.  Donina  knows 
that.  But  Nunu  is  changed  now.  He  doesn't  want  to  play 
and  sing  and  laugh  any  more,  and  he  always  used  to  be  happy. 
And  when  he  was  happy,  everybody  about  him  was  smiling. 

Donina. — Yes,  they  were.     We  were  so  happy! 

Zaida. — We  used  to  spend  hours  by  ourselves,  laughing  and 
singing  and  dancing,  just  for  the  joy  of  it,  for  our  own  sakes, 
without  ever  getting  tired  or  stopping  to  think  that  we  would  have 
to  sing  and  dance  all  night  long  in  the  theatre. 

Donina. — We  were  so  happy! 

Zaida. — And  we  would  have  been  happy  always,  just  the 
three  of  us! 

Donina. — It's  those  men,  those  terrible  men — that  Prince 
who  is  so  pale  that  he  freezes  your  blood  with  his  eye. 

Imperia. — Yes,  the  Prince!  I  know  him.  His  pleasure  is  in 
torture  and  in  being  vile. 

Donina. — But  I'll  go  tonight.     He  wants  me  to. 

Imperia. — No!  Anything  rather  than  that.  Go  with  the 
man  you  love,  who  is  one  with  you,  to  whom  you  have  given 
your  heart,  no  matter  who  he  is;  live  as  he  lives,  share  his  sorrows, 
his  joys,  let  nothing  hold  you  back.  But  the  Prince — never  go 
near  that  man!  Nothing  can  come  from  him  but  hatred,  igno- 
miny and  death.  The  women  he  loves  he  dresses  in  rags — he 
maltreats  them  without  mercy.  His  friends  are  miserable 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  159 

wretches  whom  his  money  can  buy;  and  there  is  no  infamy  he 
does  not  know.  He  binds  young  girls  to  old  men,  unutterably 
vile;  strong  boys  to  a  loathing  and  disease.  He  buys  daughters 
from  their  parents,  sisters  from  their  brothers  for  his  holidays. 
I  have  seen  him  run  through  the  streets  in  Suabia  at  midnight, 
when  it  was  bitter  cold  and  the  ground  was  covered  with  ice,  and 
gather  up  the  poor,  homeless  wretches,  starving  vagrants,  sleeping 
out  of  doors,  and  lead  them  to  the  morgue,  which  was  filled  with 
suicides  and  the  bodies  of  those  who  had  been  murdered,  or  who 
had  died  in  the  streets  from  hunger  and  cold.  There  are  myriads 
of  them  in  the  winter  time — men  and  women  and  children  too. 
It  was  horrible !  He  threw  money  on  the  corpses,  and  the  terrible 
struggle  of  that  maddened  throng,  frenzied  at  the  sight  of  the  gold, 
was  an  awful  thing  to  see.  One  coin  fell  into  an  open  wound;  a 
hundred  hands  grappled  upon  it.  They  pushed  the  bodies  aside, 
they  trampled  them  under  foot,  while  he — he  did  not  even  smile; 
he  looked  and  looked  as  the  devil  must  look  from  hell  upon  the 
crimes  poor  wretches  can  commit  who  are  hungry  and  cold, 
crushed  beneath  the  heel  of  the  heartless  and  the  rich.  This  is 
that  Prince  who  is  so  pale  that  he  freezes  the  blood  with  his  eye. 

Donina. — I  did  not  hate  him  for  nothing.  Nunu  shall  not 
go  with  him  tonight — or  he  will  never  see  me  any  more! 

Imperia. — Will  you  come  with  me? 

Donina. — No,  not  without  him.  I  said  he  would  never  see 
me  because  I  would  kill  myself;  I  could  never  leave  him  in  any 
other  way. 

Imperia. — Love  in  life  or  in  death!     Be  it  so. 

Zaida. — The  music,  Donina!  The  act  before  our  number. 
We  must  not  be  late  . 

Donina. — No,  to  sing  and  dance!  But  he  shall  not  go  to- 
night! He  shall  not  go!  Are  you  coming  in  to  see  me? 

Imperia. — -Yes. 

Donina. — Good-bye  then.  Give  me  a  kiss.  (Indicating 
ZAIDA.)  And  one  for  her  too. 

Zaida. — I  love  you  too,  Signora — all,  all  who  love  Donina. 

(ZAIDA  and  DOXINA  go  out.  The  COUNTESS  RIXALDI  and 
LEONARDO  enter.} 

Leonardo. — Having  rescued  you  from  one  danger,  how  is  it 
that  I  surprise  you  now  in  the  company  of  Ruhu-Sahib,  the  ele- 
phant driver? 

Rinaldi. — But  surely  you  do  not  suppose?  ...  A  Hin- 
doo, a  savage?  ...  I  was  merely  gathering  points  about  his 


160  SATURDAY  NIGHt 

elephants.  He  is  a  remarkable  man.  The  life  of  these  circus 
people  is  vastly  more  entertaining  than  ours.  I  wonder  what 
you  would  think  if  I  should  decide  to  join  the  circus?  What 
would  people  say? 

Leonardo. — Probably  that  you  were  settling  down.  In  the 
light  of  experience  it  might  not  appear  surprising. 

Rinaldi. — This  conventional  sort  of  life  is  a  horrible  bore. 
It  is  unrelieved  monotony. 

Leonardo. — If  you  were  to  suppress  the  most  monotonous 
feature  of  your  life,  it  would  be  a  horrible  bore. 

Rinaldi. — Come,  invite  me  to  take  something.  I'll  have  an 
ice,  a  tutti-frutti.  Those  things  are  delicious. 

Leonardo. — With    pleasure.     Ah!     Imperia.     Do    you    see? 

Rinaldi. — Yes,  and  I  have  seen  her  here  before. 

Leonardo. — How  extraordinary !     And  alone.     In  that  gown! 

Rinaldi. — She  is  always  gowned  imperially.  She  is  an 
artist,  although  not  in  my  line. 

Leonardo. — I  do  not  understand 

Rinaldi. — Why  be  so  innocent?  You  know  your  model 
better  than  I  do.  By  the  way,  what  was  she  like  when  she  was 
with  you?  I  have  heard  so  many  stones. 

Leonardo. — I  met  her  in  Rome.  She  was  one  of  the  models 
who  hang  about  the  Piazza  di  Spagna.  Donina  was  her  name  at 
the  time.  She  was  a  spare,  pinched  figure,  clad  in  rags,  with  a 
suggestion  about  her  that  was  indescribably  sordid  and  poor. 
This  terrible  poverty  of  the  great  cities  is  not  only  want  of  bread, 
it  is  hunger  for  everything  which  goes  to  make  life  dear.  Among 
the  other  models  she  attracted  no  attention.  The  painters  saw 
nothing  in  her;  neither  did  I.  But  one  day  she  stopped  me  as  I 
was  passing  to  beg  some  coppers.  There  was  no  weakness  in 
her  voice,  no  note  of  complaint;  the  tone  was  firm  and  strong. 
It  compelled  attention.  So  I  spoke  to  her,  and  her  face  lit  up 
as  we  talked,  she  became  a  different  person — there  was  another 
look  in  her  eyes,  a  new  expressiveness  in  every  feature.  She 
was  no  longer  the  poor,  pinched  model;  she  was  a  work  of  art — 
she  was  my  statue,  Imperia,  which  soon  afterward  made  my 
reputation.  Do  you  remember?  There  it  stood,  with  feet  bare, 
and  tattered  skirt,  the  body  half  naked  as  if  she  had  just  clambered 
up  a  precipice,  and  by  a  last,  despairing  effort,  was  sinking  ex- 
hausted on  the  top  into  a  throne,  while  upon  her  face  there  shone 
an  ineffable  light,  the  smile  of  life  triumphant  over  death — the 
dawn  of  victory  and  its  calm.  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  161 

the  statue.  My  ideas  of  art  are  not  what  they  were  then,  but  I 
am  sure  there  was  something  in  it.  The  combination  of  the 
materials  was  audacious:  the  rocks  of  the  pedestal  were  of  granite, 
the  figure  was  marble,  and  the  throne  gilded  bronze,  which  shone 
like  gold. 

Rinaldi. — What  was  the  significance  of  the  statue  ? 

Leonardo. — How  can  I  tell?  In  the  beginning  an  artist 
believes  that  he  speaks  through  his  works;  but  the  works  speak 
for  themselves.  The  statue  was — you  can  see  it — it  was  woman, 
it  was  Imperia,  a  wretched  creature  who  has  climbed  up  over  the 
rocks,  her  body  lacerated  and  torn,  until  she  is  about  to  seat 
herself  upon  a  throne.  Perhaps  it  was  something  more — the 
mastery  of  life  and  all  that  is  in  it,  achieved  at  last  by  the  poor 
and  the  outcast!  How  can  I  tell?  It  was  the  might  of  the  soul 
to  realize  its  dream!  And  who  of  us  had  not  his  dream  at  least  of 
a  throne — a  throne,  where  our  selfishness,  perhaps,  is  absolute, 
or  our  disinterested  love. 

Rinaldi. — How  long  did  you  remain  with  Imperia  ? 

Leonardo. — A  passing  moment,  that  was  all.  The  same 
breath  which  inspired  my  statue  infused  a  new  life  into  Donina. 
She  became  my  statue  made  woman;  she  was  Imperia.  Prince 
Florencio  met  her  in  my  studio  as  I  was  finishing  my  work;  she 
was  still  the  poor,  tattered  Donina  with  her  hunger-pinched  face. 
You  know  the  Prince.  Well,  one  morning  she  said  good-bye. 
"Where  are  you  going,  my  child?"  I  asked  her.  "To  Suabia 
to  be  Empress!"  she  replied.  And  I  had  not  the  heart  to  laugh 
at  her;  there  was  such  conviction  in  her  words,  such  burning  faith 
in  her  eyes,  it  was  impossible  not  to  believe  it.  That  woman 
might  be  Empress. 

Rinaldi. — Does  she  still  cherish  her  dream? 

Leonardo. — I  lost  sight  of  her.  Afterward  I  heard  that 
Prince  Florencio  had  abused  her,  and  she  attempted  to  kill  him; 
so  she  was  banished  from  Suabia.  Later,  she  fell  in  with  Prince 
Michael  in  Paris,  and  these  last  years  she  has  been  living  with 
him.  She  has  grown  rich. 

Rinaldi.— Prince  Michael  is  the  richest  of  the  princes  of 
Suabia. 

Leonardo. — He  is  as  prodigal  as  a  monarch  of  other  days. 

Rinaldi. — What  empire  like  riches  to  dominate  the  world? 
Well,  so  this  is  the  very  practical  reality  to  which  the  imperial 
dreams  of  your  Imperia  have  been  resolved?  Wasn't  the  throne 
of  your  statue  gilded  until  it  shone  like  gold? 


162  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Leonardo. — Yes,  like  gold — because  the  sun  is  gold,  and  the 
light.  It  was  the  embodiment  of  light,  of  hope,  of  the  ideal! 

(IMPERIA  rises  and  moves  over  to  speak  with  them.} 

Imperia. — Countess!     Leonardo!     You  did  not  see  me. 

Rinaldi. — I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  so  sorry. 

Imperia. — But  you  were  talking  about  me. 

Rinaldi. — You  couldn't  hear  us  from  there? 

Imperia. — No,  but  it  was  easy  to  see.  You  looked  over 
continually.  Were  you  surprised  to  find  me  here? 

Rinaldi. — Certainly  not;  we  are  here  ourselves. 

Leonardo. — Perhaps  the  Countess  will   explain  the   reason? 

Rinaldi. — It  is  not  necessary.  We  are  all  here  for  the  same 
thing,  more  or  less.  We  may  be  perfectly  frank  if  we  like;  no  one 
will  remember  tomorrow. 

Imperia. — We  are  like  witches,  meeting  on  Saturday  night. 
I  was  a  little  girl  when  I  first  heard  the  legend  and  you  remind 
me  of  it  now.  There  was  a  poor  woman  who  lived  near  our 
house,  she  was  very  old,  and  apparently  very  respectable.  She 
lived  alone,  and  you  would  have  said  that  she  was  a  good  woman. 
Her  house  was  clean;  she  worked  in  the  garden  by  day,  busy  with 
her  flowers,  or  fed  the  pigeons;  at  night  she  sewed  a  little  on  her 
quaint  old  clothes.  She  was  never  idle — it  was  a  calm  and  peace- 
ful life,  lived  openly  in  the  sun.  But  people  said  that  she  was 
a  witch,  and  every  Saturday  at  midnight,  as  the  clock  struck 
twelve,  she  mounted  a  broomstick  and  flew  away  to  the  witches' 
lair,  and  there  with  the  other  witches  she  did  homage  to  Satan; 
and  if  you  could  surprise  them  then,  you  would  see  them  as  they 
really  were.  One  day,  some  time  later,  at  dawn  on  a  Sunday 
morning,  the  old  woman  was  found  dead,  out  of  her  bed,  at  some 
distance  from  her  house,  in  an  open  field,  and  there  was  a  dagger 
in  her  heart.  But  nobody  could  ever  find  the  assassin,  nor  dis- 
cover any  motive  for  the  murder,  nor  could  any  one  ever  explain 
the  reason  that  woman  should  have  been  found  in  that  place  on 
that  morning,  when  she  had  been  seen  closing  the  door  of  her 
house  as  usual  the  night  before  and  in  the  morning,  when  they 
carried  the  body  there,  the  door  was  still  closed. 

Rinaldi. — But  you  don't  really  mean?  .  .  .  Nonsense! 
Then  you  would  have  to  believe  in  witches. 

Imperia. — No,  not  in  such  witches.  But  there  comes  a 
Saturday  Night  in  all  our  lives,  even  the  most  peaceful  of  them, 
when  our  souls  like  the  witches,  fly  to  their  lairs.  We  exist  for 
days  to  reach  one  hour  which  is  vital  and  real.  Then  our  witches' 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  163 

souls  take  flight,  some  toward  their  hopes  and  ambitions,  some 
toward  their  vices,  their  follies,  others  toward  their  loves — to- 
ward something  which  is  far  from  and  alien  to  our  lives,  but  which 
has  always  smouldered  in  us,  and  at  heart  is  what  we  are. 

Rinaldi. — It  is  true.  And  tonight  we  are  in  our  lair.  We 
may  salute  each  other.  Hail,  sister! 

Imperia. — Sister  and  brother,  hail!  Whither  away,  toward 
good  or  toward  ill? 

Leonardo. — I?  Where  life  dissolves  in  the  desert  and  is  gone 
like  the  flower. 

Rinaldi. — I?  To  the  Kingdom  of  Love  where  joy  is — joy 
that  outlasts  death. 

Leonardo. — And  you,  Imperia? 

Imperia. — I  ?  To  find  myself,  to  find  Donina,  poor,  ignorant 
Donina — Donina  in  love.  Your  art  has  revealed  to  me  the  light 
that  was  in  me,  and  I  follow  the  gleam! 

Leonardo. — Which  is?     .     .     . 

Imperia. — To  grow,  to  become  rich!  For  money  is  power. 
With  it,  all  things  are  possible,  for  good  or  for  evil,  for  justice  or 
revenge ! 

Rinaldi. — The  performance  is  over.  The  people  are  coming 
out. 

Leonardo. — It  is  time  to  go. 

(A  number  of  SPECTATORS  and  PERFORMERS  enter,  among  the 
latter  RUHU-SAHIB.) 

Rinaldi. — There!  Do  you  see?  The  Hindoo  ...  I 
wonder  if  it  would  be -possible  to  interest  you  in  the  taming  of 
elephants? 

Leonardo. — No,  but  it  might  in  the  taming  of  elephant 
drivers.  We  can  sit  with  him  if  you  like. 

Rinaldi. — Don't  be  absurd.  You  are  not  accustomed  to 
these  adventures. 

Leonardo. — I  aspired  merely  to  look  on. 

(ZAIDA  re-enters  in  tears;  she  runs  up  to  and  throws  her  arms 
about  IMPERIA.) 

Zaida. — Signora!     Signora!     Didn't  you  hear?     Donina— 

Imperia.— What  is  the  matter? 

'Laida. — She's  mad!  She  wouldn't  listen!  After  what  you 
told  her  .  .  .  She's  gone  with  Nunu  and  those  people — 
with  the  Prince! 

Imperia.— That  wretch  Nunu  has  sold  her.  Quick!  Do 
you  know  where  they  are? 


164  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Zaida. — Yes!  They  went  without  changing,  just  as  they 
were!  I  know  the  place;  that  is,  I  don't  know  the  name,  but  I 
can  find  it. 

Imperia. — Come  with  me. 

Zaida. — Yes  .  .  .  But  not  like  this.  You  don't  know 
these  people. 

Imperia. — What  difference  does  it  make?  I  return  to  my 
own,  and  they  will  know  me.  I  return  to  prevent  another  in- 
famy of  the  great  or  to  revenge  with  one  blow  the  ignominy  of  a 
thousand.  Come!  Countess,  good-night!  Good-night,  Leon- 
ardo! 

Rinaldi. — But  where  are  you  going,  Imperia? 

Leonardo. — Good-night,  Imperia. 

Imperia. — To  meet  other  witches'  souls  in  their  lairs.  It  is 
Saturday  Night! 

(The  Cafe  has  filled  with  people.  The  Gypsy  orchestra  begins 
to  play.} 

CURTAIN 

THE  THIRD   TABLEAU 

Cecco1  s  Tavern. 

Night. 

SAILORS  and  evil-looking  persons  sit  about  in  groups,  drinking 
and  playing  cards.  CECCO  and  GAETANO  move  among  them  serving 
wine.  MAJESTA,  an  old  hag,  at  a  table  alone,  apparently  asleep. 
PIETRO  and  others  in  the  background. 

Third  Sailor. — Hand  over  the  money;  it  comes  to  me.  Bring 
more  wine.  I'll  pay. 

Gaetano. — You  will     .     .     . 

Second  Sailor.—- Don't  play  any  more. 

Third  Sailor. — Let  go! 

Second  Sailor. — I've  had  enough;  I  take  out  my  money. 

Third  Sailor. — Take  it  out,  man;  take  it  out.  It's  quits. 
Don't  talk. 

Second  Sailor. — No!     If  you're  going  to  play— 

First  Sailor. — Going  to  play?     Who's  going  to  play? 

Third   Sailor. — Come  on!     Hand   over.     Here's   my  pile! 

Gaetano  (Aside  to  CECCO). — Who  are  these  people?  I  don't 
know  them. 

Cecco. — Off  a  yacht  which  got  in  this  morning.  Can't  you 
see  the  name?  How  does  it  go? 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  165 

Gaetano. — All  right;  they  have  money.  They  keep  a  sharp 
watch. 

Cecco. — So  I  see.  Play  them  easy.  No  trouble  tonight,  do 
you  hear?  Then  they  won't  squeal.  They'll  be  back  tomorrow. 

Gaetano. — I'll  let  them  go  now,  if  you  say  so— 

Cecco. — No.  It  wouldn't  do.  We  can't  empty  the  place. 
So  long  as  they  are  quiet — 

(The  COMMISSARY  OF  POLICE  enters.} 

Commissary. — Hello,  Cecco! 

Cecco. — Hello !     Anything  new  ? 

Commissary. — No;  nothing.     We   saw  the  Prince  come  in. 

Cecco. — Yes;  he's  inside. 

Commissary. — Who  is  with  him? 

Cecco. — I  don't  know  them  all.  The  Englishman;  those 
circus  people. 

Commissary  (Consulting  a  list}. — Let's  see  if  I  have  them. 
Here;  check  them  off.  Lucenti,  the  Englishman;  Nunu  and 
Tommy  of  the  Neapolitan  troupe;  Donina,  Celeste,  Teresina, 
women  from  the  same  troupe;  Dick  and  Fred,  jockeys  of  the 
Duke  of  Zealand;  two  English  girls;  Marcella,  a  cocotte — Are 
there  any  more? 

Cecco. — No,  that's  all. 

Commissary. — Good.     If  anything  happens,  we  are  outside. 

Cecco. — I'll  send  out  something.     It's  cold  tonight. 

Commissary. — Yes;  and  have  it  hot.  There's  a  fog  over 
the  sea.  Good  night,  Cecco.  Who  are  these? 

Cecco. — The     same     as     usual. 

Commissary. — Those  sailors? 

Cecco. — A  yacht  which  got  in  this  morning.  Don't  you 
know? 

Commissary. — Yes,  I  know.  Good  night.  (The  COMMISSARY 
goes  out.} 

First  Sailor.— Big  fish  here  tonight.     Is  it  all  right? 

Cecco. — Yes,  it's  all  right.  What  you  sec,  you  see;  under- 
stand? And  shut  up! 

An  Unknown  (Going  up  to  MAJESTA  and  shaking  her). — Hi, 
there,  old  woman!  How  is  it  you're  not  at  the  party?  Wake  up! 

Cecco. — Let  her  alone.     She  don't  trouble  you. 

Unknown. — The  Prince  forgot  to  invite  her.  Maybe  he 
didn't  know  she  was  here.  You  ought  to  have  told  him  who  you 
were.  'I  am  as  good  as  you  are,  "Your  Highness.  I  was  a  queen 
once.  They  still  call  me  Majesta!' 


i66  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Others  (Laughing). — Ha,  ha,  ha!     Majesta! 

Majestd. — Dogs ! 

Cecco. — Let    fyer    alone,    can't    you?     Don't    mind    them, 
Majesta. 

Majesta. — I?  I  don't  see  them  or  hear  them.  They  are  all 
far  away. 

Third  Sailor. — Is  she  out  of  her  head? 

Pietro. — No,  but  by  this  time  .  .  .  Don't  you  see?  It's 
the  wine. 

Cecco. — It's  true  though,  what  she  says.  Take  it  from  me. 
We've  had  people  here  who  know.  She  was  handsome  once,  and 
she  was  loved  by  a  king.  She  had  horses  and  diamonds  and 
palaces. 

Third  Sailor. — Palaces  ?     Lies ! 

Unknown. — She  must  have  changed  a  lot;  she  must  have 
grown  old.  It  isn't  possible!  I  don't  believe  it. 

Third  Sailor.— But  when  you  look  at  her  close     .     .     . 

Unknown. — Come,  tell  us  the  story.  What  king  was  it, 
eh?  Wheie  were  those  palaces? 

Pietro. — Come  on, old  woman!  Give  us  the  story.  Yes,  he 
was  a  king,  was  he?  Palaces?  They  were  lies! 

Cecco. — Let  her  alone,  damn  you! 

Majestd. — Fools!  Dogs!  What  have  I  to  say  to  you? 
Can  you  see,  except  with  your  eyes?  You  cannot  understand. 
Look  at  me.  Well,  I  was  beautiful  once,  aftd  pictures  of  my  face 
and  models  of  my  form  adorn  palaces  and  museums.  But  if  I 
took  you  to  them  and  said  "Look!  This  is  I!"  you  would  not 
believe  it.  Many  have  loved  me,  many  that  were  great,  many 
that  were  rich,  many  that  were  wise- — yes,  even  a  king.  For  one 
word  of  mine  he  would  have  forsaken  his  throne.  Do  you  see 
me  now?  Then  I  was  dressed  in  brocades  and  covered  all  with 
pearls — pearls  that  outpriced  a  kingdom!  In  a  day  I  spent 
upon  flowers  enough  to  last  me  the  rest  of  my  life  You  do  not 
believe  it?  No?  Look!  Come  here!  (Pulling  off  a  pair  of  old 
woolen  mittens.}  Here  are  these  hands  that  never  worked.  Do 
you  see?  They  are  the  hands  of  a  queen.  Many  have  kissed 
them  in  their  time — on  their  knees — and  they  thanked  me  for  it. 
I  am  proud  of  them.  And  sometimes  it  is  cold  and  I  have 
nothing  to  wear,  and  sometimes  I  am  hungry  and  have  nothing  to 
eat,  but  I  never  want  for  gloves.  Look  at  them!  Are  they  not 
the  hands  of  a  queen? 

Pietro. — It's  true.     She's  right. 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  167 

Unknown.— Something  had  to  be  left  her.  You  can  still  let 
them  kiss  your  hands. 

Majestd. — You  might  have  all  the  riches  of  kings,  you  might 
conquer  the  earth,  you  might  raise  yourselves  upon  thrones,  yet 
your  children  would  not  have  such  hands. 

Pietro. — Slippery  hands,  to  let  so  much  slide  through  them. 

Unknown.— They  might  have  kept  something  more  than 
their  whiteness.  She  wouldn't  be  where  she  is  now  if  what  she 
said  was  true. 

Majestd. — Those  hands  never  learned  to  save.  Jewels  ran 
through  them  like  water  through  a  fountain,  and  were  scattered 
as  they  ran. 

Unknown. — You  must  have  given  away  lots  of  money. 

Pietro. — And  done  much  good. 

Majes'.d — Good  or  evil,  as  it  came.  People  came  to  me  who 
were  poor,  people  came  to  me  who  were  bad — it  was  all  the  same. 
If  one  were  to  stop  to  think!  We  must  pass  the  good  things  of 
life  along.  Would  you  refuse  a  penny  for  fear  that  it  was  to  buy 
drink?  That  is  enough  to  make  the  devil  laugh.  To  some  drink 
is  more  than  meat.  Can  beggars  eat  flowers?  But  the  earth 
g'ves  us  flowers.  The  heart  is  dried  up  that  will  not  give  of  its 
flowers. 

Pietro. — She's  right. 

Unknown.- — She  speaks  the  truth.     Poor  old  woman! 

Cecco. — I  told  you  she  wasn't  crazy.  Come  boys,  buy  her  a 
drink. 

Pietro. — Let  her  have  what  she  wants. 

Majestd. — I  don't  care.     What  you've  got. 

Third  Sailor. — Champagne,  eh?     Champagne — for  a  queen! 

Unknown. — Champagne!  At  least  champagne!  Bring 
champagne!  Here's  the  money. 

Pietro. — Have  you  champagne? 

Cecco. — Tonight,  yes.     I'll  bring  it — if  it's  not  a  joke     .     .     . 

Unknown. — If  the  Prince  won't  invite  you,  we  will. 

Majestd. — The  Prince  of  Suabia?  I  knew  the  Emperor;  I 
can  see  him  now  on  his  white  horse.  Then  he  was  heir-apparent. 
He  must  be  very  old.  And  I  knew  the  Princess  Etelvina,  the 
mother  of  this  Prince.  She  was  a  little  child,  and  I  kissed  her. 

Cecco. — The  champagne.     Bring  glasses. 

Pietro. — To  her  Majesty!  Up!  Would  you  like  to  live 
long,  Majesta? 

Majestd. — Why  not?     As  God  wills. 


1 68  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Pietro. — Then — to  your  health! 

Majestd. — And  yours,  and  happiness!  It  is  not  too  late  for 
you.  Yes,  it  is  champagne. 

Cecco. — What  did  you  think? 

Majestd. — That  it  was  a  dream.  It  is  so  long  since  I  tasted 
champagne  .  .  .  God  reward  you  for  it.  Another  glass! 
It  is  a  rare  wine,  and  this  is  not  bad  champagne.  I  know,  Cecco. 

Pietro. — You  are  not  the  only  majesty  who's  here  tonight. 

(IMPERIA  and  ZAIDA  appear  in  the  doorway.} 

Imperia. — Is  this  the  place? 

2,aida. — Yes,  Signora.     Are  you  afraid? 

Imperia. — Why  should  I  be  afraid?  My  home  was  like  this. 
Come  in. 

Pietro  (Discovering  IMPERIA). — Another  Queen!  Ha!  This 
is  a  night  of  queens! 

Cecco. — Silence! 

Pietro. — Is  that  the  way  you  looked,  Majesta? 

Unknown. — Do  you  know  this  queen? 

Majestd. — Queen?  Bah!  No  more  than  I  was!  No,  I 
don't  know  her.  The  queens  that  I  knew  are  all  dead  or  have 
grown  old. 

Imperia. — Where  is  the  Prince?  Don't  attempt  to  deny  it. 
I  know  he  is  here.  I  know  who  is  with  him. 

Cecco. — Was  he  expecting  you?     They  said  nothing  ?bout  it. 

Imperia. — No,  he  was  not  expecting  me.  Wait!  (She 
scribbles  something  with  a  pencil  upon  a  piece  of  paper.}  One 
moment.  Give  him  this  and  bring  me  back  the  answer.  At 
once! 

Cecco. — It   may  .     .     .     but     .     .     .     Won't    you    sit 

down  ? 

Imperia. — I'll  wait  here.     Is  there  no  other  place? 

Cecco. — No.     Only  a  hole  there — upstairs. 

Imperia. — Don't  be  long. 

Cecco. — It's  all  right;  they  won't  hurt  you.  They're  good 
fellows.  Don't  be  afraid. 

Imperia. — I  am  not  afraid. 

Zaida. — Signora!     I  ought  not  to  have  told  you! 

Imperia. — Why  not?  Why  should  I  be  afraid?  The  place 
and  the  people  do  not  seem  strange.  It  is  I  who  seem  strange. 

Pietro  (To  MAJESTA). — Yes.  Give  her  a  glass.  Invite  her. 
You  ought  to  do  it — among  friends! 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  169 

Unknown. — Yes!  Between  queens!  Do  the  honors.  You 
ought. 

Majestd  (Staggering  to  her  feet;  then,  with  a  drunken  leer). — 
Here  .  .  .  Let  me  have  it  ...  (Offering  a  glass  to 
IMPERIA.)  Lady  .  .  . 

Zaida  (Alarmed). — Ay! 

Imperia. — Don't  be  afraid.     What  is  it,  my  poor  woman? 

Majestd. — Your  Majesty,  I  ...  I  also  am  a  queen 
a  queen  .  .  .  Majesta,  .  .  .  Don't  you  know 
me? 

Pietro. — Don't  mind  her.  She  won't  hurt  you.  She's  only 
a  bit  out  of  her  head. 

Majestd. — Tonight  I'm  holding  a  feast  in  my  palace.  I 
offer  you  a  glass  of  champagne.  Drink!  It  will  not  hurt  you. 
It  is  not  poison.  I  have  no  reason  to  wish  you  harm.  You 
cannot  hurt  me.  I  am  happy,  oh,  so  happy!  Who  can  take  this 
happiness  away?  But  they  are  not  all  like  this.  No!  There 
are  bad  people — bad!  Take  care!  And  they  have  done  me 
harm,  much  harm.  But  I  ...  I  have  harmed  nobody! 
Nobody!  That's  the  reason  I  am  so  happy!  That's  the  happi- 
ness that  none  can  take  away! 

Zaida. — Signora!     Come,  let  us  go. 

Imperia. — No.  I  must  hear  her.  These  are  the  discords, 
the  broken  harmonies  of  the  mad.  They  fascinate  me.  There  is 
something  wild  and  eerie  in  them  which  may  prove  prophetic  in 
the  end.  Come  here,  my  poor  woman.  (Offering  money.} 

Majestd. — Gold!  Do  you  see?  It  is  gold!  More  cham- 
pagne! (Throwing  down  the  money .}  Champagne! 

Pietro. — Here!     Pick  it  up!     You'll  need  it. 

Majesta. — Need  it?  No,  no!  Never!  It's  for  you!  I 
never  need  anything  any  more.  Champagne!  Bring  cham- 
pagne! (She  falls  senseless.} 

(HARRY  LUCEXTI  enters.} 

Harry  Lucenti. — Imperia! 

Imperia. — The  Prince? 

Harry  Lucenti. — The  Prince  requests  me  to  offer  you  my 
arm — now  that  you  have  come  so  far.  Will  you  join  us? 

Imperia.— Docs  the  Prince  know  why  I  have  come? 

Harry  Lucenti. — Pleasure,  perhaps;  jealousy 

Imperia. — Of  whom? 

Harry  Lucenti. — We  saw  you  at  the  circus  this  evening. 


1 70  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Imperia. — And  you  imagined  something  monstrous  of  me, 
something  worthy  of  the  Prince  and  yourself? 

Harry  Lucenti. — A  little  something  of  the  sort.  The  Prince 
will  be  delighted  to  see  you.  Will  you  accept  my  arm? 

Imperia. — Take  me  in.     (A  piercing  cry.}     What  is  that? 

Cecco  (Enters,  running). — What's  the  matter? 

Harry  Lucenti. — Who  cried  out? 

Cecco  (Closing  the  door). — Silence.  Sit  down!  Quiet!  No- 
body moves!  (Runs  out.) 

Unknown. — What's  the  matter? 

(CECCO  re-enters  with  TOMMY,  supporting  the  PRINCE;  also 
CELESTE,  TERESINA,  NELLY,  FANNY  and  the  two  jockeys,  followed 
immediately  by  NUNU,  DONINA  and  MARCELLA,  all  in  the  greatest 
confusion.) 

Some. — What's  the  matter?     What  has  happened? 

Cecco. — The  Prince! 

Imperia. — Blood ! 

Harry  Lucenti. — Are  you  hurt? 

Sailors  and  Others. — Up!     Up!     What's  wrong?     Out!  Out! 

Cecco  (To  GAETANO). — Lock  the  door!  Stand  by!  God! 
Nobody  moves!  (GAETANO  draws  a  knife  and  stands  by  the  door.) 

Pietro. — Room  there!  Back!  Or  ...  (They  draw 
knives  and  daggers.) 

Cecco. — No!  No  you  don't!  You'd  only  run  into  the 
Police.  They'd  pull  us  all.  Order!  Quiet!  Sit  down! 

Nunu  (Furiously  to  DONINA). — It  was  you!  You  did  it! 
We  are  ruined! 

Donina. — Yes!  It  was  I!  I!  It  was  not  you!  You 
coward ! 

Imperia. — You  ? 

Donina. — He  sold  me!  Do  you  hear?  He  sold  me! 
Cowa  rd !  Cowa  rd ! 

Celeste. — But  they're  not  going  to  let  him  die  like  this? 

Cecco. — No  one  leaves  this  room. 

Harry  Lucenti. — No  blood!  He  bleeds  internally;  a  bad 
sign.  He'll  never  get  up. 

Cecco. — The  police!  They've  heard  us.  Run!  Quick! 
Sit  down!  If  they  knock  we'll  have  to  open.  Keep  cool!  This 
blood — (He  overturns  a  bottle.)  There!  Sit  down!  And  you 
.  Get  around  him!  Back!  Hold  him  up!  So  ... 
And  you  there,  sing — sing  and  dance!  Music!  The  Police! 
Sh!  .  .  .  Quiet!  .  .  .  (All  do  as  he  tells  them.) 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  171 

Donina. — My  God!     My  God! 

Nunu  (Striking  her). — Dance!     Dance,  I  tell  you! 

(The  music  strikes  up.} 

(NUNU,  DONINA,  ZAIDA  and  TOMMY  begin  the  tarantella.) 
(The  COMMISSARY  and  POLICE  enter.) 

Commissary. — What's  this  noise?     What's  the  matter? 

Cecco. — Nothing!     You  see     . 

Commissary. — We  heard  cries     .     .     . 

Cecco. — The  supper.  Too  much  wine,  eh?  Is  it  so?  No- 
body knows  what  he's  at.  They're  in  fine  spirits.  The  Prince 
can  hardly  sit  up.  Ah!  There  he  is  ...  We  shut  the 
door  so  that  nobody  could  come  in.  It's  late.  Have  a  drop? 

Commissary. — No,  thanks.     Good  night. 

Cecco. — Good  night! 

(At  the  door,  keeping  his  eyes  riveted  on  those  in  the  tavern  until 
the  COMMISSARY  is  out  of  sight;  then  to  those  within.)  Go  on!  Go 
on!  Keep  it  up! 

(The  women  who  have  been  sitting  at  the  PRINCE'S  side,  spring 
up  terrified.  The  PRINCE  rolls  under  the  table.) 

Celeste. — Dead ! 

Teresina. — Ay! 

(Wild  confusion.     All  rush  for  the  door.) 

Cecco. — Ruined!  Lost!  Now  what  are  we  to  do?  No  one 
leaves  this  room! 

Nunu  (Threatening  violence). — Open  the  door!     Let  us  out! 

Cecco. — No!  It's  no  use.  The  police  have  got  your  names. 
They'd  pick  you  all  up,  one  by  one  We  stand  or  fall  together. 

Imperia. — Harry!  "Fake  him  to  my  house — in  my  carriage. 
It's  the  only  way.  They  must  not  find  him  here.  Are  you  ready? 

Harry  Lucenti. — Yes.     Come  on!     Quick! 

Cecco. — Are  you  going  to  take  him  away?  Yes,  it's  the  best. 
But  wait  .  .  .  There  may  be  people  in  the  street.  A  mo- 
ment .  .  .  Wait  .  .  .  I'll  draw  of!  the  police.  Sit 
down!  And  you  there — come  on!  Come  on!  One  at  a  time. 
Pass  out  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Order!  Quiet! 

Pietro. — The  first  man  who  opens  his  mouth 

Unknown. — Not  a  word!     Silence!     It's  for  all. 

Cecco. — And    you — sing    and    dance!     Damn    you!     Dance! 

Donina  (Falling  exhausted). — I  can't  dance  any  more!  Not 
if  they  kill  me! 

Cecco  (Going  up  to  MAJESTA). — This  woman  has  seen  nothing 
.  The  others  will  say  nothing. 


172  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Harry  Lucenti  (At  the  PRINCE'S  side). — He  is  dead.  Cold 
already! 

Imperia. — Yes.     Dead!     Dead!     How  horrible! 

CURTAIN 
THE  FOURTH  TABLEAU 

A  room  in  IMPERIA'S  Villa. 

IMPERIA  is  discovered  writing  a  note,  which  she  hands  to  a 
SERVANT  when  finished.  The  voice  of  the  COUNTESS  RINALDI  is 
heard  outside. 

Rinaldi  (Outside). — She  is  always  at  home  to  me.  You  need 
not  take  the  trouble. 

(IMPERIA  rises  and  goes  hurriedly  to  meet  the  COUNTESS,  who 
enters.} 

Imperia. — Countess ! 

Rinaldi. — Ah!  You  were  not  expecting  me?  The  portiere 
and  the  servants  did  not  wish  to  let  me  come  in;  they  told  me  you 
were  resting.  But  it  was  so  very  important  that  I  had  to  see 
you;  so  I  dispensed  with  formality.  I  am  pardoned  I  know. 
But  you  are  not  alone?  On  my  way  here  I  passed  Prince  Michael 
at  the  gate  of  the  Princess's  villa,  no  doubt  intending  to  visit  her. 

Imperia. — No  doubt.     Did  you  speak  to  him? 

Rinaldi. — No,  he  was  driving;  I  was  walking.  ]walk  a 
great  deal  for  my  health  nowadays.  We  merely  bowed,  that  was 
all.  Well,  what  was  the  outcome  of  your  rendezvous  of  last 
evening,  the  denouement  of  Saturday  night? 

Imperia. — Saturday  night? 

Rinaldi. — I  am  afraid  you  are  not  frank  with  me;  you  are 
keeping  something  back,  much  as  I  love  you.  It  would  be  in- 
teresting to  confide  impressions,  compare  adventures,  as  it  were. 
I  have  decided  to  make  a  change  in  my  life;  I  am  done  with 
frivolity.  Fortunately  Heaven  has  put  a  man  in  my  path  who 
has  proved  my  salvation.  Ah!  If  I  had  only  met  him  before, 
instead  of  all  those  worthless  scamps  who  have  compromised  my 
reputation. 

Imperia. — But  who  is  he? 

Rinaldi. — He  is  not  one  of  the  men  whom  we  meet  every  day. 
His  is  a  primitive  spirit,  a  simple  soul.  You  know  him. 

Imperia. — I  ? 

Rinaldi. — Have  you  seen  the  seven  elephants  at  the  Circus? 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  173 

Imperia. — But  my  dear  Countess! 

Rinaldi. — Well,  he  the  elephant-driver.  You  are  laughing 
at  me. 

Imperia. — I  thought  that  you  said  you  were  done  with 
frivolity. 

Rinaldi. — You  don't  mean  to  imply  that  this  is  frivolity? 
But  you  are  not  acquainted  with  my  plans. 

Imperia. — Then  explain  them  to  me!  Talk,  make  me 
understand.  Would  to  God  they  were  never  so  fantastic,  so 
impossible  and  strange,  dreams,  extravagances,  anything  to  take 
me  out  of  myself,  to  make  me  forget  this  reality  which  is  shutting 
in  around  me.  Would  you  believe  it?  There  are  dreams, 
horrible  nightmares  with  all  the  appearance  of  truth,  which  escape 
from  our  sleep  and  enter  into  our  lives.  I  have  dreamed,  I  am 
sure  that  I  have  dreamed,  something  which  now  I  seem  to  have 
seen,  to  have  heard,  but  which  cannot  be,  no,  which  cannot  have 
been.  That  is  the  reason  I  want  to  hear  you  talk,  to  listen  to 
your  fantasies,  your  extravagances,  follies,  dreams,  madness,  until 
all  becomes  confused  and  involved  in  illusion,  and  we  cannot  tell 
whether  we  are  dreaming  among  visions  or  waking  among  facts 
which  are  real. 

Rinaldi. — But  there  is  nothing  visionary  about  my  plans; 
they  are  practical.  I  am  putting  my  house  in  order;  I  am  de- 
voting myself  to  my  affairs.  Luckily,  a  unique  opportunity  has 
presented  itself,  a  brilliant  speculation,  which  cannot  fail  to 
triple  my  capital  in  less  than  a  year. 

Imperia. — You  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you.  Really, 
you  put  every  rational  thought  quite  out  of  my  head. 

Rinaldi. — But  you  mustn't  laugh;  it  is  a  serious  matter. 
Ruhu — his  name  is  Ruhu — an  Oriental  name— Well,  Ruhu  is 
not  the  real  Ruhu. 

Imperia. — I  don't  understand. 

Rinaldi. — The  real  Ruhu-Sahib  was  the  former  proprietor 
of  the  elephants;  this  man  was  merely  his  assistant, that  was  all. 
When  the  real  Ruhu  died,  his  widow,  who  was  English,  inherited 
the  seven  elephants,  and  she  proposed  to  the  assistant,  that  he 
continue  in  charge,  and  manage  all  seven  upon  a  salary  which  she 
was  to  pay  him.  But  it  was  exploitation.  While  the  poor  Ruhu 
exposed  his  life  every  day  for  the  most  pitiful  wages,  the  widow, 
the  proprietress  of  the  elephants,  was  collecting  wholly  fabulous 
sums  from  the  management.  What  do  you  think  of  that?  The 
poor  are  justified  in  rising  up  against  such  exploitation.  Ruhu 


i74  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

was  broken-hearted.  "Ah!  if  the  elephants  were  only  mine,"  he 
said  to  me  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  "If  I  had  a  hundred  thousand 
francs!  If  I  could  find  some  one  to  associate  herself  with  me!" 

Imperia. — You  need  say  no  more;  you  were  touched.  You 
determined  to  buy  the  elephants  and  present  yourself  with  them 
in  the  circus. 

Rinaldi. — Not  I.  How  ridiculous!  I  am  to  buy  them;  he 
is  to  present  them.  I  shall  receive  half  the  profits.  You  have  no 
conception  of  what  that  will  amount  to.  Twelve  thousand  francs 
a  month,  and  they  are  engaged  for  the  entire  season.  Seven 
tame  elephants  for  a  hundred  thousand  francs — it's  a  bargain. 
Really,  you  have  no  idea  what  it  costs  to  buy  an  elephant.  And 
these  are  the  best  Indian  elephants.  You  can  tell  them  by  the 
trunk  and  the  ears. 

Imperia. — I  see  that  you  have  studied  the  subject.  This  is 
not  an  illusion  after  all. 

Rinaldi. — What  did  you  expect?  On  the  contrary!  In 
what  other  way  could  one  get  so  much  for  a  hundred  thousand 
francs?  That  is  the  reason  I  hurried  to  see  you.  At  the  mo- 
ment, I  do  not  happen  to  have  such  a  sum  at  my  disposal.  My 
balance  at  the  Credit  is  not  above  sixty  or  seventy  thousand 
francs.  But  it  is  only  a  matter  of  a  fortnight.  Of  course,  any 
of  my  friends  whom  I  had  cared  to  approach  .  .  .  but  I  was 
anxious  to  afford  you  a  striking  proof  of  my  affection. 

Imperia.— -I  should  like  to  respond  in  the  same  spirit,  but 
at  present  I  am  unable  to  give  you  an  answer.  I  don't  know 
whether  or  not  I  have  so  much  money. 

Rinaldi. — You  don't  call  that  much  money? 

Imperia. — I  shall  let  you  know  this  afternoon — later. 

Rinaldi. — Later?  I  am  afraid  this  is  coyness  upon  your  part. 
Surely  the  Prince  will  not  deny  you;  he  never  denies  you  any- 
thing. You  see  that  I  am  talking  to  you  as  a  friend,  and  our 
friendship  has  cost  me  something.  Not  that  it  matters  to 
me 

Imperia. — I  shall  send  you  my  answer. 

(A  SERVANT  enters.} 

Servant. — His  Highness. 

(PRINCE  MICHAEL  enters.} 

Prince  Michael. — Countess!  (To  IMPERIA.)  How  are  you 
this  morning? 

Imperia. — Quite  well.  The  Countess  tells  me  that  she  saw 
}  ou  at  the  Princess's  villa.  Were  you  calling  on  her? 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  175 

Prince  Michael. — Yes.  I  was  to  have  taken  luncheon. 
Haven't  you  heard? 

Imperia. — What  ? 

Prince  Michael. — I  will  tell  you  later.  I  was  unable  to  join 
you  at  the  circus  last  evening.  Another  telegram  from  Suabia 
detained  me  with  the  Duke. 

Imperia. — What  has  happened? 

Prince  Michael. — Nothing     .     .     . 

Rinaldi. — Your  Highness  has  something  private  to  discuss 
with  Imperia. 

Prince  Michael. — Nothing  that  cannot  wait. 

Rinaldi. — You  remember  that  I  dispense  with  invitations 
which  are  not  dispensed  to  me,  yet  I  hardly  need  one  to  withdraw 
when  my  presence  might  prove  embarrassing.  Good  morning, 
Your  Highness. — My  dear,  I  shall  be  at  home  all  afternoon, 
expecting  your  reply. 

(The  COUNTESS  RINALDI  goes  out.) 

Prince  Michael. — How  much  did  the  Countess's  visit  cost 
you? 

Imperia. — I  see  you  have  had  experience. 

Prince  Michael.— -I  most  certainly  have.  However,  her 
adventures  are  always  amusing.  This  one  ought  to  be  worth 
something.  Leonardo  sent  her  to  me.  She  must  have  told  you— 
an  affair  at  the  circus.  Well,  what  about  Donina?  Did  you  find 
her  last  evening?  You  see  what  confidence  I  have  in  you:  I 
believe  everything  you  say. 

Imperia. — You  are  right  to  do  so.  You  have  been  noble  and 
generous  with  me,  and  your  loyalty  deserves  mine  in  return. 
You  have  not  tried  to  bind  me  to  yourself  through  appeals  to 
self-interest.  You  have  given  me  more  than  enough  to  buy  my 
my  liberty;  you  said  that  you  did  not  want  slaves.  And  in  giv- 
ing me  my  liberty,  you  have  won  my  gratitude  forever. 

Prince  Michael. — Forever?  Your  mind  is  restless,  ambi- 
tious, filled  with  great  dreams,  while  I- — I  am  content  to  have  all 
my  days  pass  alike,  to  have  them  seem  as  one  day,  undisturbed 
by  trouble  or  care,  flowing  smoothly  in  a  calm  and  even  stream. 
But  the  shadow  of  the  Empire  has  fallen  upon  me  again.  The 
baby  prince  is  dead. 

Imperia. — Dead  ? 

Prince  Michael. — He  was  born  with  a  mere  spark  of  life. 
They  telegraphed  again  just  after  the  announcement  of  his 
birth.  The  Emperor  has  summoned  Prince  Florencio  and  his 


I76  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

mother  to  return  to  Court;  he  wishes  to  become  reconciled, 
perhaps  to  abdicate.  He  is  not  well.  The  country  is  on  the 
brink  of  revolution.  A  despotic  government  is  no  longer  possible 
in  these  days.  Then,  Florencio's  health  is  conspiring  against 
me.  Once  more  near  the  throne! 

Imperia. — Very  near!  Prince  Florencio,  that  is  all.  Have 
you  seen  him  today? 

Prince  Michael. — No,  I  was  to  have  taken  luncheon  at  their 
villa,  but  his  mother  was  horribly  disturbed.  Florencio  had  not 
returned  all  night. 

Imperia. — Don't  they  know?     .     .     . 

Prince  Michael. — Nothing  could  have  happened  to  him.  A 
debauch!  Morning  surprised  him  in  some  tavern;  it  was  im- 
possible to  return  home  in  broad  daylight.  I  have  notified  the 
Prefect. 

Imperia. — But  you  say  his  mother     .     .     . 

Prince  Michael. — This  anxiety  will  kill  her.  She  cannot 
stand  it;  it  is  one  continual  agitation.  Today  she  was  more 
affected  than  usual.  She  woke  up  suddenly  at  midnight;  she 
thought  she  heard  a  cry — 

Imperia. — At  midnight  ? 

Prince  Michael. — Yes.  Now  to  her  mind  it  has  taken  the 
form  of  a  presentiment,  and  I  confess  that  I  was  myself  affected 
by  it;  although  of  course  nothing  could  have  happened.  The 
police  are  with  him  continually;  it  is  out  of  the  question.  Besides 
nobody  has  seen  Harry  Lucenti.  However,  the  Signore  will 
know. 

Imperia. — Have  you  any  idea  where  he  was? 

Prince  Michael. — No,  but  they  will  have,  and  they  will  know 
who  was  with  him.  Otherwise  .  .  .  Do  you  think  that 
anything  could  have  happened  to  him? 

Imperia.— You  say  that  his  mother  heard  a  cry?  You  don't 
believe  that  spirits  can  communicate  at  a  distance,  do  you,  that 
they  can  speak  with  each  other  through  the  air?  He  must  have 
been  thinking  of  his  mother.  Yes,  he  called  out  "Mother!" 
And  his  mother  heard  him  call. 

Prince  Michael. — Imperia,  what  are  you  talking  about? 
Are  you  dreaming? 

Imperia.— Something  must  have  happened  to  him.  Yes,  we 
must  fear,  we  must  expect  the  worst! 

(A  SERVANT  enters.) 

Servant. — The  Signor  Prefect  to  see  Your  Highness. 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  177 

Prince  Michael. — Immediately!     Now  we  shall  know. 

(PRINCE  MICHAEL  and  the  SERVANT  go  out.) 

(IMPERIA  follows  them  to  the  door  and  listens.  Presently 
HARRY  LUCENTI,  pale  and  haggard,  still  in  evening  dress,  and 
showing  the  effects  of  intoxication  the  night  before,  appears  at  one  of 
the  doors.) 

Imperia. — Who  is  there?  Ah!  What  do  you  want?  Don't 
leave  him. 

Harry  Lucenti. — It  won't  hurt  him  to  stay  alone.  He  won't 
move.  I  heard  voices.  Do  they  suspect? 

Imperia. — No,  they  are  looking.  They  will  find  out  soon 
enough.  Perhaps  they  know  already.  Go  back!  Don't  let 
them  see  you.  Don't  leave  him  alone. 

Harry  Lucenti. — He's  covered  up  with  a  piece  of  brocade — 
fit  winding-sheet  for  an  Emperor.  What  a  death!  Insignificant 
as  his  life.  Ludwig  of  Bavaria  was  the  last  king. 

Imperia. — Oh!  Be  still!  Be  still!  I  can't  bear  to  hear 
you,  to  see  you !  You  are  as  bad  as  he  was.  What  difference  does 
it  make  how  he  died?  He  deserved  such  a  death.  It  does  not 
matter  who  killed  him. 

Harry  Lucenti. — Don't  tell  me  that  Heaven  has  punished 
him.  Nonsense,  Imperia!  Accident — chance.  Many  a  rogue 
has  died  an  old  man  in  his  bed,  amid  the  benedictions  of  his 
children. 

(LEONARDO  enters.) 

Imperia. — Leonardo!     How  could  you  be  so  long? 

Leonardo. — I  but  this  moment  received  your  note.  Ah! 
Harry!  What  are  you  doing  here? 

Harry  Lucenti. — I?  Imperia  will  tell  you.  It  is  a  sad  office, 
which  leaves  nothing  for  me  to  do — but  to  think.  Silence! 

(He  disappears.) 

Imperia. — Leonardo,  I  don't  know  what  you  have  thought 
of  me  since  we  drifted  apart,  what  your  impressions  may  have 
been.  I  only  know  that  in  the  decisive  moments  of  my  life, 
when  my  heart  has  turned  instinctively  toward  that  which  is 
true,  I  have  always  looked  on  you  as  a  loyal  and  faithful  friend. 
Am  I  wrong? 

Leonardo. — No,  Imperia.  We  parted  without  ill  feeling. 
You  were  in  love  with  life,  you  wanted  to  icalize  my  vision — the 
ideal  of  my  statue;  I,  to  retire  from  the  world,  to  find  solace  in 
meditation  and  dreams.  The  wall  of  facts  came  between  us. 
Why  do  you  send  for  me  now? 


178  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Imperia. — To  destroy  those  facts  which  shut  in  upon  our 
jives.  Your  ideal,  your  vision,  the  throne  of  your  Imperia — 
ah,  how  near  it  is!  It  is  not  inherited,  no,  the  poor  inherit  no 
thrones,  but  we  overthrow  them  by  our  might,  we  take  refuge 
in  their  shadows  and  reign  by  the  right  of  intelligence  without 
being  kings.  Do  you  remember?  I  told  you  I  was  going  to 
Suabia  to  be  Empress?  Well,  I  am  not  an  Empress,  but  I  reign  in 
an  Emperor's  heart.  He  is  mine,  I  know  it;  I  hold  him  in  the 
hollow  of  my  hand.  He  cannot  live  without  me.  What  do  you 
say  now?  I  am  your  Imperia,  your  statue.  Your  spirit  breathes 
in  me.  I  am  the  realization  of  your  dreams. 

Leonardo. — Yes,  my  Imperia — my  love!  My  first,  my  only 
love!  Live  for  me,  triumph  for  me!  Alas!  I  could  do  no  more 
than  dream. 

Imperia. — Yes,  I  shall  triumph;  but  first  it  is  necessary  to 
destroy  the  facts,  to  trample  reality  under  foot.  The  baby 
Prince  of  Suabia  is  dead.  The  old  Emperor  abdicates  the  crown. 

Leonardo. — Then  Prince  Florencio     . 

Imperia. — Prince  Florencio  is  dead. 

Leonardo. — Dead  ? 

Imperia. — Yes,  he  is  dead,  murdered  last  night — before  my 
eyes.  No,  I  killed  him  myself. 

Leonardo. — You!  What  are  you  talking  about,  Imperia? 
Are  you  mad  ? 

Imperia. — Yes,  I — I  did  it!  Or  what  is  the  same  thing,  it 
was  my  Donina,  my  child!  She  was  defending  her  youth,  her 
innocence,  her  love.  It  was  the  vengeance  of  all  of  us  who  had 
fallen  by  him  before.  Don't  you  believe  it?  Look!  this  is  his 
dagger,  a  precious  stiletto,  a  work  of  art,  exquisitely  damascened. 
The  handle  is  gold,  set  with  jewels.  He  was  playing  with  it, 
half  caressing,  half  threatening  her.  "Would  you  dare  to  kill 
me?"  he  asked  her.  "A  kiss  first  and  it  is  yours."  And  he 
offered  her  the  handle  like  a  jewel.  My  Donina,  when  she  felt 
that  kiss,  plunged  the  blade  into  his  heart.  No,  I  am  not  dream- 
ing; these  are  not  phantoms  of  the  witches'  lair.  Do  you  re- 
member? When  we  parted  I  told  you!  It  was  Saturday  Night! 
Well,  its  horrible  phantoms  have  followed  me  back  into  life; 
they  hover  in  my  room.  Do  you  want  to  see  him?  He  is  here. 
Harry  Lucenti  is  watching  the  corpse. 

Leonardo. — But  it  cannot  be  possible!  These  things  cannot 
have  happened.  Nightmares,  hallucinations! 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  179 

Imperia.—At  first  I  thought  so  myself.  When  I  came  home, 
I  forgot  everything.  A  moment  ago  and  I  was"  laughing  and  talk- 
ing with  the  Countess.  It  all  seemed  so  unreal  and  far  away— 
nightmares  from  the  other  world,  illusions  of  our  witches'  souls. 
But  it  is  the  truth,  Leonardo;  it  is  the  truth! 

Leonardo. — But  what  are  you  going  to  do?  They  will  find 
out.  .  .  . 

Imperia. — I  am  not  afraid.  I  shall  fight;  I  shall  win. 
Phantoms  cannot  frighten  me.  They  will  be  here  in  a  moment; 
perhaps  they  already  know.  You  see  I  am  calm.  They  will  say 
nothing.  You  will  see  ... 

Leonardo. — No,  Imperia.  You  are  trembling.  What  is 
that  you  are  staring  at? 

Imperia.— No,    no!     I    am    calm.     Hush!     They    are    here. 

Leonardo. — They  must  know. 

Imperia.- — I  shall  tell  them  if  they  do  not. 

(PRINCE  MICHAEL  and  the  SIGNORE  enter.) 

Prince  Michael. — Imperia,  the  Signor  Prefect  wishes  to 
speak  with  you.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Leonardo,  I  did  not  know 
you  were  here. 

Leonardo.- — Highness 

Prince  Michael  (To  the  SIGNORE). — Leonardo  will  retire  with 
me  if  you  prefer  to  see  her  alone. 

Imperia.— No,  I  prefer  to  have  him  remain  during  the 
examination;  I  assume  the  Signor  Prefect  wishes  to  examine  me? 

Leonardo. — As  you  see. 

Imperia.- — Then  I  prefer  to  answer  in  the  presence  of  my 
friends.  Otherwise  the  authority  of  the  Signor  Prefect  might 
intimidate  me. 

Prince  Michael. — Unfortunately  indications  that  something 
serious  has  happened  to  Prince  Florencio  multiply  every  moment. 
No  one  has  seen  him  this  morning.  It  has  been  impossible  to 
ascertain  his  whereabouts. 

Signor e. — It  is  known  that  last  night  he  was  at  Cecco's 
Tavern.  Here  is  the  list  of  the  persons  who  were  there — the 
complete  list.  Will  you  look  it  over?  Is  there  anyone  missing? 

Imperia. — No  one. 

Prince  Michael.— Your  name  is  on  the  list. 

Imperia.— That  proves  that  the  Signore  is  well  served  by  his 
police. 

Signore. — Then  it  may  be  true  also  that  the  Prince  left  the 
tavern  shortly  before  daybreak,  somewhat  intoxicated,  as  it  seems, 


i8o  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

supported  by  Harry  Lucenti  and  the  proprietor  of  the  tavern. 
He  was  lifted  into  your  coach,  and  driven  to  your  house.  Shortly 
afterward  you  returned  in  the  company  of  a  girl  named  Donina, 
a  circus  performer,  with  whom  you  must  have  some  connection, 
as  this  is  not  the  first  time  you  have  been  seen  with  her. 

Prince  Michael. — The  Signore  knows  who  Donina  is.  He  is 
informed  of  your  relationship. 

Signore. — I  am  informed  of  everything.  Except  for  the 
persons  who,  without  doubt,  are  now  in  this  house,  all  those  who 
were  with  the  Prince  last  night  are  under  surveillance  as  a  matter 
of  precaution.  The  affair  is  a  delicate  one.  Any  indiscretion 
might  compromise  persons  of  quality,  who  are  not  to  be  treated 
like  ordinary  offenders.  I  am  questioning  you  as  a  friend,  Sig- 
nora.  Those  who  were  present  assure  me  that  the  Prince  left  the 
grotto  at  the  same  time  that  you  did,  as  I  have  already  said. 
Well?  Is  this  an  amorous  adventure?  Or  a  political  intrigue? 
Is  it  true  that  Prince  Florencio  is  now  in  your  house? 

Imperia. — Prince  Florencio  is  in  my  house.  I  brought  him 
home  with  me.  But  I  brought  him  home  dead! 

Prince  Michael. — Dead ! 

Signore.-— Dead ! 

Imperia. — Yes,  Prince  Florencio  has  committed  suicide. 

Signore.— What  is  that,  Signora? 

Prince  Michael. — Impossible! 

Leonardo. — What  do  you  mean? 

Imperia  (Firmly}. — He  has  committed  suicide.  In  spite  of 
everything  you  may  know,  in  spite  of  everything  you  may  dis- 
cover, this  is  and  will  remain  the  truth. 

Signore. — But  it  is  utterly  out  of  the  question.  There  is 
nothing  whatever  to  indicate  it. 

Prince  Michael. — Come!     We  shall  see. 

Imperia. — No!  Hear  me  first.  He  was  murdered;  that  is 
the  truth — I  was  there;  I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes.  But  nobody 
can  be  held  responsible  for  his  death.  If  you  attempt  to  investi- 
gate, to  punish,  to  lay  bare  the  facts,  the  facts  will  become  in- 
volved in  falsehood,  and  calumny  and  infamy  and  lies  will  en- 
tangle us  all  in  the  crime,  from  those  miscreants  whose  very  faces 
betray  the  degeneracy  of  this  contemptible  Prince,  to  the  Em- 
peror of  Suabia  himself,  who  might  very  well  have  suborned  an 
assassin  to  relieve  himself  of  the  incubus  of  such  an  heir  to  the 
crown. 

Prince  Michael. — Infamous ! 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  181 

Signore. — Signora ! 

Imperia. — Yes,  I  was  there — your  mistress!  The  mistress 
of  the  heir  to  the  throne!  But  nobody  knows  why  I  was  there. 
I  can  accuse  myself;  I  can  accuse  you.  The  Prince  has  his  ad- 
herents in  Suabia.  The  halo  of  martyrdom  would  set  very  well 
upon  his  brow.  If  you  wish  to  undeceive  the  world,  to  proclaim 
the  truth — very  well.  Proclaim  it.  And  I  will  proclaim  it  too. 
Let  us  tell  the  life  that  he  led,  expose  his  vices,  his  crimes,  and 
fix  a  stain  upon  his  memory,  until  the  contempt  and  scorn  of  the 
world  overwhelm  us  all  and  all  the  rest  of  his  kind,  the  partners 
of  his  infamies. 

(A  SERVANT  enters.) 

Servant. — Your  Highness! 

Prince  Michael. — But  what  is  this? 

(THE  DUKE  OF  SUABIA  enters.) 

Duke. — Highness,  the  Princess  has  heard  that  the  Prince  is 
in  this  house;  she  insists  upon  seeing  him.  It  is  impossible  to 
hold  her  back. 

Prince  Michael. — No!     Take  her  away!     At  once! 

Duke. — Yes,  don't  permit  her  .  .  .  Don't  allow  her  to 
know  . 

(PRINCE  MICHAEL,  the  SIGNORE  and  the  DU^E  OF  SUABIA 
go  out.) 

Leonardo. — Do  you  think  they  will  not  tell? 

Imperia.- — No;  they  are  afraid.  The  truth  frightens  them. 
I  know  what  his  life  was,  don't  you  see? — his  vices,  his  crimes, 
his  intrigues.  They  will  not  tell;  my  silence  for  theirs.  The 
Prince  \vas  not  murdered;  nobody  is  to  blame  for  his  death.  It 
was  an  accident,  a  debauch.  Don't  you  see?  It  is  possible  to 
destroy  the  facts  and  triumph  over  them.  Before  love,  they 
dissolve  like  a  dream. 

Donina  (From  an  inner  room). — Let  me  go!  Let  me  go! 
(Entering.)  Mother!  Mother! 

Leonardo. — Is  this  your  child? 

Imperia. — Yes,  my  child.  Why  do  you  run  out?  You  are 
trembling. 

Donina. — Help  me!  Hide  me!  They  will  get  me.  I  don't 
want  to  live;  I  don't  want  them  to  see  me,  to  speak  to  me.  I 
shan't  answer.  I  shan't  say  a  word! 

Imperia. — Leonardo,  take  her  away — far  away. 

Leonardo. — It  is  useless.  We  should  be  seen;  it  is  impossible 
to  escape. 


1 82  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Donina. — Let  them  kill  me!  I  don't  care.  I  saw  him 
again!  Oh,  I  saw  him  again!  And  I  shall  see  him  always  .  . 

Imperia. — You  ? 

Donina. — Yes!  I  woke  up  trembling  all  over.  I  wanted  to 
get  away;  so  I  ran  out  without  thinking.  And  I  saw  him!  Oh, 
I  saw  him!  And  I  shall  see  him  always!  I  shall  go  mad! 

Imperia. — What  is  that?     Silence!     Do  you  hear,  Leonardo? 

Leonardo. — Yes;  it  is  the  Princess.     She  is  crying. 

Imperia. — No,  no!     Don't  you  listen  to  her.     It  is  nothing. 

Donina. — Yes,  she  is  crying!  His  mother  is  crying!  I  can 
hear  her  cry.  Ah!  She  is  coming  nearer,  nearer — all  the  time 
nearer  . 

Leonardo. — She  is  coming  this  way.  Surely  they  will  not 
permit  her 

Imperia. — Wait!  No!  .  .  .  Now  they  are  passing  by. 
Come!  Let  us  go!  Let  us  leave  this  place! 

Donina. — Do   you   hear   her   call?     "My   boy!     My  boy!" 

Imperia.— Cornel     Come  away! 

Donina. — No!  I  shall  hear  her  always  .  .  .  always! 
"My  boy!  My  boy!" 

Imperia.— I  can  bear  it  no  longer.  They  were  not  phan- 
toms, Leonardo;  we  cannot  destroy  the  facts,  they  are  too  strong 
for  us.  They  creep  back  into  our  lives  and  overwhelm  us  in  the 
end.  This  mother  weeping  for  her  boy,  this  child  dying  of  grief 
and  remorse — they  chill  my  blood,  they  freeze  me  to  the  bone! 
I  can  do  no  more.  Let  what  will  come,  come. 

Leonardo. — No,  Imperia.  Your  will  is  strong.  Don't  throw 
your  life  away.  Fight  on,  and  triumph! 

Imperia. — No!  No!  It  is  too  late.  Leave  me!  Save  my 
child,  Leonardo!  Save  my  child! 

CURTAIN 
THE   FIFTH   TABLEAU 

Garden  of  Imperials  Villa* 

DONINA,  LEONARDO  and  NUNU  are  together  in  the  garden. 
LEONARDO  is  modeling  a  bust  of  DONINA,  who  poses  for  him. 

Leonardo. — That  will  do  for  today,  Donina. 

Donina. — I  am  not  tired.     Don't  stop  on  my  account. 

Leonardo. — I  know  that  you  are  strong  now.  We  need  not 
be  careful  of  your  health  any  more.  It  isn't  the  model  this  time 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  183 

who  is  tired,  it's  the  artist.  Who  could  work  today?  What  an 
afternoon!  We  pray  for  days  like  this  for  our  little  holidays, 
but  today  all  nature  is  on  holiday.  How  much  better  right  she 
has  to  ask  us  not  to  intrude  our  petty  affairs  upon  her  divine  calm 
Work  today?  Not  even  in  thought!  It  is  enough  to  be  alive,! 
to  have  eyes  to  see,  to  drink  in  the  air  and  sunlight,  to  breathe 
the  perfumes  of  the  sea  and  the  flowers.  You  seem  sad,  Donina. 
Why  are  you  always  sad? 

Nunu. — She's  afraid  she's  going  to  die. 

Leonardo. — The  doctors  say  that  you  are  well  now.  As 
soon  as  you  are  happy,  you  begin  to  think  of  dying.  You  are 
happy,  Donina? 

Donina. — Very  happy.     That  is  the  reason  I  am  afraid. 

Nunu. — Can   you   see   Prince   Michael's   yacht  from   there? 

Leonardo. — Yes,  I  think  so.  There  it  is.  It  came  in  this 
morning. 

Donina. — Why  does  Prince  Michael  come  back?  I  thought 
he  went  away  to  be  Emperor? 

Leonardo. — Don't  ask  me,  Donina.  It  is  nothing  to  us. 
The  Empire  of  Suabia  is  very  far  away. 

Donina. — It  is  a  great  deal  too  near. 

Nunu. — Can't  we  go  out  in  the  boat  like  we  did  yesterday? 
Why  tfo  we  have  to  stay  here  ail  afternoon  ? 

Donina. — Are  you  tired,  Nunu? 

Nunu. — No,  but  the  sea  air  would  be  better  for  you.  We 
never  leave  this  place. 

Donina. — It  is  so  beautiful! 

Nunu. — Yes,  but  it's  a  bore.     It's  like  a  prison. 

Donina. — Like  a  prison? 

Leonardo  (Aside  to  NUNU). — You're  a  bad  actor,  Nunu. 

Nunu. — I  can't  stand  this  forever. 

(IMPERIA  enters.} 

Imperia. — You  have  stopped  early  today.  Doesn't  Donina 
feel  well? 

Donina. — No,  it  was  Leonardo. 

Leonardo. — Yes,  it  was  I,  the  idler  always!  We  are  almost 
done. 

Donina. — It  looks  just  like  me. 

Imperia. — No,  I  don't  want  to  see  it  until  it  is  finished. 
Does  she  look  as  I  did  when  you  first  knew  me,  when  I  was  your 
model  ? 


i84  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Leonardo. — No,  Imperia.  There  may  be  something  in  the 
features,  but  the  expression  is  not  the  same.  You  had  more  life, 
more  will.  Donina  would  never  have  climbed  up  over  the  rocks 
to  seat  herself  upon  a  throne. 

Imperia. — Why  not?  You  say  that  because  you  are  copying 
the  sadness  of  her  face;  you  are  making  a  portrait,  not  expressing 
an  idea  in  your  work.  My  statue  was  designed  to  challenge 
attention  and  triumph  eternally;  hers  is  merely  for  me.  Your 
art  is  snatching  from  death  all  that  it  is  permitted  us  to  save. 

Leonardo. — I  told  her  I  was  tired,  but  her  color  frightened 
me — her  labored  breath.  There  is  no  hope. 

Imperia. — They  say  that  those  who  die  of  this  disease  are 
never  conscious  of  the  approach  of  death.  But  Donina  thinks 
of  nothing  else.  She  looks  forward  to  it;  she  expects  it. 

Leonardo. — It  is  the  cunning  of  despair,  the  fearsome  dread 
of  death.  She  knows  that  it  is  a  bad  sign  to  be  cheerful,  so  she 
pretends  to  be  afraid.  But  she  does  not  deceive  herself. 

(DONINA  laughs.} 

Imperia. — She  is  laughing!  She  is  happy!  Oh,  so  happy! 
What  are^ou  doing,  Donina? 

Donina. — Picking  flowers  for  you — roses.  Aren't  roses 
your  favorite  flowers?  I  was  laughing  because  Nunu  was  telling 
me  a  story  about  them.  It  wasn't  very  nice,  but  it  was  funny; 
all  his  stones  are.  It  was  about  a  nunnery  with  a  garden  with 
roses  in  it,  and  the  devil  came  and  hung  a  little  imp  on  every 
bush,  just  the  same  in  color  as  the  roses,  so  that  they  looked  like 
little  babies.  And  when  the  nuns  saw  them  they  thought  they 
were  in  mortal  sin  and  so  as  not  to  make  a  scandal  they  ran  and 
hid  them  in  their  cells.  But  the  little  devils  jumped  out  and 
began  to  run  and  skip  and  cut  up  all  sorts  of  capers — they  sang  in 
the  choir  and  danced  while  the  organ  played  and  rang  the  bells 
in  the  belfry  and  then  finally — No,  I  don't  think  I'll  tell  you 
what  they  did  finally.  It  might  not  seem  nice;  but  it  was  funny. 
You  tell  them,  Nunu;  they'll  laugh  as  much  as  I  did. 

Nunu. — Don't  be  silly.  Come  on  and  pick  some  more 
flowers. 

Imperia. — Yes,  laugh  Donina,  laugh!  Ah,  Leonardo!  Why 
do  we  waste  our  lives  in  dreams  and  ambitions?  Our  true  life  is 
the  love  which  springs  in  our  hearts.  The  happiness  of  a  child  is 
the  only  lasting  joy,  the  one  hint  which  life  gives  of  the  value  and 
meaning  of  life. 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  185 

Leonardo. — Do  you  mean  that  you  are  not  going  to  Suabia? 
Prince  Michael  has  returned  solely  for  you.  Is  he  to  go  back 
alone  to  rule  his  Empire? 

Imperia. — He  says  that  without  me  he  cannot  accept  the 
crown.  His  ship  will  be  lost  forever  on  the  deep,  cast  up  on  some 
unknown  coast,  where  his  days  will  be  spent  in  obscurity,  and  he 
will  slip  from  the  world  unnoticed  at  the  close.  By  nature  he  is 
indolent;  all  his  energy,  his  hope  are  in  me. 

Leonardo. — But  you  ? 

Imperia. — While  my  child  lives,  my  place  is  with  her. 

Leonardo. — It  will  not  be  long. 

Imperia. — I  never  wished  till  now  to  stop  the  hand  of  time. 
On  a  day  like  this,  it  seems  as  if  we  should  never  die;  as  if  it  were 
impossible  that  we  should  be  passing  through  life  like  shadows, 
looking  out  for  a  little  while  upon  the  earth,  the  sea  and  the  sky 
which  whisper  to  us  of  their  eternity  and  our  sudden  death. 
Life  cannot  be  all  a  cheat;  it  would  be  too  cruel!  No,  there  is, 
there  must  be  something  higher,  something  more  eternal  in  us 
than  this  sea  and  this  sky. 

Leonardo. — But  what  is  there  in  our  lives  which  deserves  to 
endure?  Is  it  what  we  are,  or  what  we  appear  to  be? — the  love 
that  was  in  us  once?  what  we  long  for  and  dream?  Where  are 
our  true  selves  to  be  found? 

(DONINA  and  NUNU  come  forward  with  armfuls  of  roses.) 

Donina. — Look  what  lovely  roses!  They  are  all  colors. 
Bring  them  here,  Nunu.  We  picked  them  all.  What  difference 
does  it  make?  The  bushes  will  be  covered  with  them  again 
tomorrow. 

Imperia. — There  never  were  such  beautiful  flowers. 

Leonardo.- — And  none  more  suggestive  of  life.  All  the  colors 
of  the  flesh- — red,  like  blood,  like  lovers'  lips;  pink,  like  the  skins 
of  children;  amber  pale,  with  a  languorous  carmine  touch,  like 
the  warm  nudes  of  Titian;  voluptuously  opulent,  like  the  great 
goddesses  of  Rubens;  white  and  bloodless  as  a  virgin's  hands. 

Donina. — These  are  sallow  like  wax- — like  the  dead. 

Leonardo. — No,  Donina,  they  are  all  alive;  they  are  not  like 
the  dead.  They  live!  When  I  hold  them  upside  down,  they 
are  like  little  ladies,  with  the  petals  and  the  corolla  here  for 
skirts.  This  might  be  a  stately  marchioness,  a  Madame  Pom- 
padour, with  her  wide  rose  panniers — the  stem  her  slender  waist 
and  these  two  green  leaves  by  the  side,  her  great,  puffed-out 
sleeves.  Although  something  is  lacking  .  .  .  Wait!  Let 


1 86  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

us  make  a  foolish  little  head  for  our  marchioness  out  of  this  petal, 
with  a  long,  tapering  neck  so  thin,  as  the  poet  says,  that  it  is 
shaped  for  the  guillotine.  »  This  might  be  an  Infanta  of  Spain 
with  her  spreading  hoop  skirts,  and  this  a  magnificent  Dogaressa 
o  f  Venice,  imperial  in  her  purple!  When  you  hold  them  like  this 
roses  resemble  ladies  in  flowers. 

Donina. — Yes;  they  do.  How  lovely!  They  are  just  like 
ladies.  Look,  Nunu!  But  you  won't  look!  You're  foolish 
enough  to  be  afraid  they  might  be  really,  and  fall  in  love  with  you. 
But  I'll  spoil  them  all  first.  There!  There!  (Throwing  roses 
at  him.} 

Nunu. — Look  out!  (Throwing  roses  back  at  her.}  It's  a 
ba  ttle  of  flowers. 

Donina. — Look  out  yourself!  (They  run  off,  pelting  eac 
other  with  roses.} 

Imperia. — It  cannot  be  death,  Leonardo;  Donina  is  so  happy! 

Leonardo. — Deceptive  happiness!     You  know  the  cost. 

Imperia. — Yes,  but  Donina  could  not  live  without  him.  In 
spite  of  all  that  he  has  done  to  her,  I  had  to  bring  him  here,  to 
keep  him,  by  flattery,  by  fear.  The  wretched  boy  wants  to  go 
but  I  tell  him  that  I  will  have  him  taken  to  Suabia  and  accused  of 
the  murder  of  Prince  Florencio.  What  does  it  matter  if  it  is  a 
lie?  Donina  has  forgiven  him,  and  she  believes  that  he  loves 
her  as  she  was  never  loved  before,  and  she  is  happy — dying  happy 
in  the  belief.  Without  it,  she  would  have  died  long  ago  in  an 
agony  of  grief  and  remorse.  His  treachery  would  have  killed  her. 

Leonardo. — Do  you  think  Nunu  will  be  able  to  deceive  her 
much  longer? 

Imperia. — It  is  not  his  virtue  that  I  count  upon,  it  is  his 
interest.  And  I  am  here  to  attend  to  it. 

Leonardo. — The  Countess  Rinaldi  has  driven  up  to  the  gate. 

Imperia. — She  has  seen  the  Prince's  yacht,  and  she  is  anxious 
to  know  whether  I  am  going  to  Suabia.  Tell  her  I  am  not  at 
home;  get  rid  of  her  in  any  way  you  can.  That  woman  is  odious. 

Leonardo. — Why  odious?  She  is  another  shadow  passing 
through  life,  indefatigable  in  the  pursuit  of  her  ideal. 

(IMPERIA  goes  out.} 

(The  COUNTESS  RINALDI  enters.} 

Rinaldi. — Leonardo ! 

Leonardo. — My  dear  Countess!  Did  they  tell  you  Imperia 
was  not  at  home? 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  187 

Rinaldi. — I  didn't  ask  whether  she  was  or  not.  There  was 
no  one  at  the  gate.  However,  I  was  certain  to  find  someone, 
now  that  Imperia  is  living  en  famille.  Of  course  I  count  you  as 
one  of  the  family. 

Leonardo. — Of  the  artistic  family. 

Rinaldi. — It  is  the  same  thing.  We  all  come  back  to  our 
starting  point  sooner  or  later,  unless  we  run  on  forever.  But  I 
advise  you  to  be  careful;  Prince  Michael  has  come  back  too,  in 
spite  of  everything. 

Leonardo. — In  spite  of  it?     He  always  insisted  that  he  would. 

Rinaldi. — It  seems  that  after  the  suicide  of  Prince  Florencio 
—I  hope  you  notice  the  suicide — I    confine  myself  to  the  truth 
which  is  official. 

Leonardo. — An  unexceptionable  sort  of  confinement.  It  is 
all  that  makes  life  possible. 

Rinaldi. — I  know.  The  trouble  is,  though,  that  people  have 
such  a  weakness  for  the  likely  lie.  Nobody  has  been  able  to 
account  for  the  suicide. 

Leonardo. — Why  not  ask  the  Signore? 

Rinaldi. — You  could  never  get  it  out  of  him.  A  crime  here 
would  horrify  the  aristocratic  element;  they  are  the  persons  who 
spend  the  money.  One  cannot  die  here,  one  cannot  kill  oneself 
except  in  some  way  that  is  agreeable.  We  die  of  happiness,  we 
kill  ourselves  so  as  not  to  occasion  inconvenience  to  others. 
Nevertheless,  I  have  decided  to  swallow  the  whole  story.  A 
reminiscence,  eh,  of  Saturday  Night?  Like  that  affair  of  Lady 
Seymour's.  Of  course  you  have  heard  the  news? 

Leonardo. — Not  another  suicide? 

Rinaldi.— ^\ot  this  time.  I  met  her  with  her  arm  in  a  sling- 
it  seems  she  fell  in  her  automobile.  Last  year  she  had  a  cut  over 
her  eye — a  fall,  so  I  hear,  from  her  horse.  These  accidents  always 
happen  when  her  husband  is  away  from  home.  Two  or  three 
months  are  sufficient  for  the  wounds  to  heal. 

Leonardo. — Physically  and  morally,  I  suppose? 

Rinaldi. — 1  confine  myself  to  the  truth  which  is  official. 

Leonardo. — You  are  a  very  prudent  woman.  By  the  way, 
your  color  is  particularly  fine  this  morning.  You  arc  looking  ex- 
tremely well.  I  notice  a  certain  austerity  in  your  toilette  . 

Rinaldi. — The  change  in  my  life.  For  a  time,  I  was 
threatened  with  nervous  prostration,  but  my  physician  pre- 
scribed a  severe  regimen.  "Control  yourself,"  he  said.  "Re- 
member, neurasthenia  is  no  longer  in  fashion.  The  reign  ot 


1 88  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

nerves  is  at  an  end;  this  season  we  shall  have  a  renascence  of 
muscle." 

Leonardo. — You  plan  to  be  the  Michael  Angelo  of  this  re- 
nascence. 

Rinaldi. — Fortunately,  I  had  no  difficulty  in  accommodating 
myself  to  the  change.  Heaven  directed  my  feet  to  the  path  of 
salvation. 

Leonardo. — Without  elephants? 

Rinaldi. — Don't  recall  those  absurdities!  I  have  put  such 
trifles  behind  me.  During  one  of  my  walks  in  the  country,  I 
stopped  at  the  door  of  a  Franciscan  monastery.  It  occurred  to 
me  to  go  in.  A  pale  faced  friar  with  a  long,  bushy  beard  was 
preaching.  What  a  sermon  that  was!  How  he  did  preach  about 
love,  human  and  divine! 

Leonardo. — You  could  have  preached  upon  the  former  with 
greater  show  of  authority. 

Rinaldi. — You  are  laughing  at  me.  I  was  converted  upon 
the  spot.  Now,  I  go  to  hear  him  preach  every  afternoon.  He  is 
a  second  St.  Francis.  I  am  organizing  a  series  of  festivals  for 
the  restoration  of  the  convent. 

Leonardo. — Poor  saint!  The  temptations  of  St.  Anthony 
will  be  nothing  to  his. 

Rinaldi. — You  must  not  say  that;  you  don't  know  him. 

Leonardo. — I  know  you. 

Rinaldi. — I  accept  the  aspersions  of  the  world  as  penance  for 
my  sins;  I  could  even  wish  to  have  people  think  worse  of  me. 
In  pursuance  of  my  plan,  I  am  soliciting  contributions  from  door 
to  door.  Of  course,  I  can  count  upon  you  and  Imperia.  Will 
you  send  me  one  of  your  works  for  my  kirmess? 

Leonardo. — With  the  greatest  of  pleasure.  Something  ap- 
propriate— a  Magdalen,  perhaps.  Do  you  prefer  her  before  or 
after  conversion? 

Rinaldi. — Only  see  that  she  has  plenty  of  clothes. 

Leonardo. — Better  have  it  before,  then.  Afterward  you 
recall  in  what  state  she  ran  through  the  wilderness — although 
the  penance  today  is  apparently  not  in  the  wilderness. 

(DONINA  and  NUNU  re-enter.} 

Donina  (Running  after  NUNU). — Don't  you  run  away! 
Give  me  that  letter!  Give  it  to  me,  or  ... 

Nunu  (Disovering  the  COUNTESS). — Hush!  Be  still!  Don't 
you  see?  .  .  .  You're  always  picking  at  me. 

Donina.— You  always — 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  189 

Nunu. — Let  me  alone,  I  tell  you. 

Rinaldi  (To  LEONARDO). — Oh,  don't  bother  to  explain! 
Two  proteges  of  Imperia's  .  .  .  Daphnis  and  Chloc?  Or 
Paul  and  Virginia?  This  is  the  Garden  of  Love. 

Leonardo. — Of  profane  love;  it  is  not  for  you. 

Rinaldi. — Will  you  tell  Imperia  of  the  object  of  my  visit? 

Leonardo. — I  shall  announce  your  conversion. 

Rinaldi. — But  merely  as  a  preliminary;  I  am  counting  upon 
her. 

Leonardo. — She  is  certain  to  hear  of  it. 

Rinaldi. — These  lovers  are  fascinating.  Both  children  of 
course  .  .  .  How  old  is  the  boy? 

Leonardo. — Countess,  a  good  age. 

(The  COUNTESS  and  LEONARDO  go  out.} 

Donina. — Give  me  that  letter!     Give  it  to  me! 

Nunu. — That's  right.  Scream,  kick,  cry,  so  that  everybody 
can  hear — you  always  do.  Then  when  you  get  worse,  they'll 
say  it's  my  fault.  Didn't  I  tell  you  it  was  for  Tommy?  Can't 
you  read?  What  do  you  want  me  to  say? 

Donina. — For  Tommy,  is  it?  Yes,  the  envelope's  addressed 
to  him,  but  maybe  there's  another  letter  inside.  Maybe  you've 
arranged — If  you  hadn't,  you  wouldn't  have  hidden  while  you 
were  writing  it.  You  would  have  told  me.  What  do  you  care  if 
I  know  what  you  write  to  Tommy? 

Nunu. — I  wish  you  did. 

Donina. — I  will  then.     Give  it  to  me! 

Nu  n  u . — Let  go !     Let  go ! 

Donina. — Oh!  ...  I  can't!  I  am  choking.  Oh!  .  .  . 
Oh!  ... 

Nunu. — Now  you  see. 

Donina. — My  God ! 

(LEONARDO  re-enters.} 

Leonardo. — What  is  the  matter  with  Donina? 

Donina. — Nothing     .     .     .     Nothing 

Nunu. — She's  crazy.  She  wants  to  read  a  letter  I've  written 
to  a  friend;  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  Because  you  pay  me 
you  think  it's  easy;  I  have  an  easy  life.  But  I  don't.  If  it 
wasn't— 

Donina. — They  pay  you  ?     If  it  wasn't  ?     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Leonardo. — Nunu!     Why  do  you  tease  Donina? 

Donina. — That's  the  only  way  he  can  enjoy  himself — and 
I  have  given  up  my  life  for  him,  yes,  my  soul!  Because  I  am 


190  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

dying  for  him!  It  was  for  him  that  I  killed  him,  it  was  for  him 
that  I  lost  my  soul! 

Leonardo. — Donina!  What  have  you  done,  you  fool? 
(Aside  to  Nunu.)  Couldn't  you  wait? 

Nunu. — Wait?  Ijve  waited  long  enough.  I  can't  stand  it 
anymore.  So  you'd  like  to  read  that  letter?  You  want  to  know 
what  I've  written  to  my  friend?  Well  then,  read  it!  Read  it! 

Donina  (Snatching  the  letter). — Ah! 

Nunu. — Read  it!     It  isn't  my  fault. 

Leonardo. — What  does  it  say? 

Donina  (Falling  flat  upon  the  ground). — Mother  of  God! 

Leonardo. — What  have  you  done?     Donina!     Donina! 

Nunu. — It  wasn't  my  fault. 

(IMPERIA  enters.) 

Leonardo. — Imperia,  Donina  is  dying. 

Imperia. — Donina!     My  child! 

Donina. — Leave  me!  Leave  me!  Let  me  die.  You  have 
deceived  me.  Everybody  has  deceived  me. 

Imperia. — What  is  the  matter?  This  letter?  .  .  .  What 
is  in  this  letter? 

Donina. — Leave  me !     Leave  me ! 

Imperia. — You  wretch!     You  have  killed  her. 

Nunu. — It  wasn't  my  fault;  she  wanted  to  read  it.  I've 
stood  it  long  enough.  Let  me  go! 

Imperia. — Go?  You  forget  that  I  have  you  in  my  power 
you  coward!  I  thought  that  if  I  paid  your  price  and  bought 
your  soul,  I  could  make  of  you  what  I  pleased,  good  or  evil,  but 
it  was  not  the  life  that  you  led  that  made  you  evil,  it  was  your 
craven  heart,  you  base-born  brother  of  Prince  Florencio,  inca- 
pable of  pity  or  of  love! 

Donina. — No,  let  him  go.  Why,  did  you  make  him  deceive 
me?  Why  did  you  deceive  me,  Nunu?  You  can  go  now.  I 
forgive  you.  Don't  wait  here  for  me  to  die.  They'll  give  you 
what  they  promised  you.  Give  him  his  pay.  He  has  pretended 
long  enough.  I  know  the  truth  now.  I  am  dying.  It  is  the 
only  truth  that  he  ever  told  me. 

Imperia. — You  wrote  that  letter  on  purpose  for  her  to  see  it. 
You  knew  it  would  kill  her. 

Nunu. — No.     She  did  it  herself. 

Imperia. — Leave  this  house  at  once!  Don't  you  wait  until 
Donina  is  no  longer  here  to  beg  me  to  let  you  go!  Out  of  my 
sight! 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  191 

Nunu. — Like  this? 

Leonardo. — Don't  you  worry.  You'll  get  your  pay.  (LEON- 
ARDO and  NUNU  go  out.} 

Donina. — Why  did  you  deceive  me?  When  all  my  life  is  a 
lie,  how  am  I  to  live? 

Imperia. — Donina ! 

Donina. — I  am  a  hindrance  to  you;  I  know  it.  They  want 
you  there  in  that  Empire,  that  cursed  Empire  with  its  Prince, 
its  ice  and  its  snow.  The  white  ship  is  there  with  its  white  sails, 
its  men  that  are  so  pale  ...  It  has  come  to  take  you  away 
to  that  Empire,  of  which  you  have  been  dreaming  so  long. 

Imperia. — No,  Donina,  no!  I  shall  be  here  always  with 
you.  The  white  ship  will  sail  away  like  a  white  bird,  but  I  shall 
still  be  here  with  you,  always  with  you !  Love  is  the  only  reality 
of  our  lives.  I  shall  be  here  with  you,  always,  always  with  you! 

Donina. — Yes!     Waiting  for  me  to  die — like  he  was! 

Imperia. — No,  Donina,  your  life  is  my  life! 

Donina. — Before  the  white  ship  sails  away  like  a  white  bird 
I  too,  shall  sail  away  forever.  I  shall  not  know  it,  but  I  shall  be 
gone,  like  a  shadow,  like  a  cloud  from  the  sea.  I  shall  have 
passed  out  of  your  life. 

Imperia. — No,  my  Donina!  Child  of  my  heart!  Of  my  one 
my  only  love!  Like  shadows  all,  all  shall  pass — but  love  that 
ripens  and  lives  on. 

(LEONARDO  and  PRINCE  MICHAEL  enter.) 

Leonardo. — Imperia     .     .     .     the  Prince 

Imperia. — You!     What  arc  you  doing  here? 

Prince  Michael. — -You  have  sent  no  answer.  I  have  waited 
all  day. 

Donina. — He  has  come  for  you. 

Imperia. — I  shall  not  go. 

Donina. — I  know  the  truth.  I  tell  you,  you  will  kill  me, 
waiting  here  for  me  to  die — with  your  lies.  It  is  too  cruel! 

Imperia. — What  do  you  mean? 

Donina. — Promise  me  that  you  will  not  wait;  you  will  go 
today.  Or  I  shall  kill  myself.  I  will  not  ruin  your  life! 

Imperia. — Yes,  I  will  go  today.  Leave  me  a  little  while. 
Leonardo,  help  Donina. 

Leonardo.— Donina! 

Donina. — No!  It  was  nothing.  I  am  better  now  .  .  . 
But  I  know  that  it  is  death. 

(LEONARDO  and  DONINA  go  out.} 


1 92  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Prince  Michael. — You  will  come? 

Imperia. — Yes. 

Prince  Michael. — I  should  not  have  returned  without  you. 

Imperia. — Would  you  have  renounced  the  throne? 

Prince  Michael. — Why  not?  When  it  is  difficult  to  live  one's 
own  life  in  peace,  think  what  it  must  be  to  rule  an  Empire.  Mil- 
lions of  human  beings  engaged  in  the  struggle  to  be  happy,  and 
depending  for  their  happiness  upon  our  precious  laws! 

Imperia. — You  have  no  right  to  talk  like  that.  Do  you  in- 
tend to  renounce  your  divine  heritage?  The  millions  of  your 
Empire  are  not  dependent  for  their  happiness  upon  you.  We 
are  unable  to  assure  the  happiness  even  of  those  who  are  nearest 
to  our  hearts.  Suffering  and  death  are  over  all;  it  is  the  will  to 
overcome  them  that  makes  us  immortal,  yes,  equal  unto  God! 
You  know  nothing  of  life.  Good  and  evil  have  no  significance 
for  you.  They  have  for  me.  I  have  struggled,  as  many  have 
struggled  before,  against  poverty,  against  envy  and  shame,  in- 
justice and  outrage,  I  have  suffered  and  borne  all,  and  I  say  to 
you  now  upon  the  steps  of  your  throne:  Do  justly,  love  mercy, 
and  your  Empire  will  be  glorious  among  men. 

(LEONARDO  enters.} 

Leonardo. — Donina  is  asleep.  Thanks  to  an  anodyne  she 
has  fallen  asleep.  If  you  must  go,  it  is  better  now.  The  parting 
would  be  too  sad.  I  shall  remain  with  her. 

Imperia. — Go?     Leave  her?     No,  no!     I  cannot. 

Prince  Michael. — Bring  her  with  you. 

Imperia. — It  would  kill  her.     No!     No! 

Leonardo. — Death  cannot  be  long  delayed  in  any  case. 

Imperia. — But  she  is  still  alive!  My  place  is  with  her. 
Can't  you  wait?  Oh,  this  is  horrible!  Wait! 

Leonardo. — Leave  her,  Your  Highness.  She  will  come,  I 
promise  you. 

Prince  Michael. — Imperia,  if  you  do  not  come  before  night 
my  yacht  will  sail,  but  without  me.  Instead,  it  will  bear  my 
abdication.  In  the  morning  I  shall  be  here  with  you  to  resume 
our  old  life,  and  the  Empire  of  Suabia  will  be  lost  to  you — like  a 
dream. 

(TiiE  PRINCE  goes  out.) 

Imperia.- — Leonardo,  what  shall  I  do?  I  am  your  idea, 
your  Imperia.  Breathe  your  spirit  into  me!  What  ought  I  to 
do? 


JACINTO  BENAVENTE  193 

Leonardo. — You  have  fashioned  your  life  by  your  will,  and 
you  know  where  it  lies. 

Imperia. — My  vision  is  your  ideal.  I  will  go.  But  Donina. 
Do  you  say  that  she  is  asleep?  I  must  see  her. 

Leonardo. — Your  courage  will  fail. 

Imperia. — I  must  see  her!     I  must  see  her! 

Leonardo. — You  will  not  go  if  you  do.  Imperia!  You  will 
not  go!  You  will  not  go! 

(IMPERIA  enters  the  house.  LEONARDO  remains  at  the  door 
and  listens.  Presently,  IMPERIA  reappears.}  Imperia!  .  . 

Imperia. — She  is  asleep.  I  kissed  her  upon  the  forehead  and 
she  did  not  wake. 

Leonardo. — You  kissed  her  upon  the  forehead? 

Imperia. — It  is  my  duty  to  go,  Leonardo,  is  it  not? 

Leonardo. — Yes!  Triumph,  Imperia!  It  is  the  triumph  of 
my  ideal!  But  first,  tell  me — I  must  know  it — when  you  kissed 
her  forehead 

Imperia.— Well  ? 

Leonardo. — Was  it  cold? 

Imperia. — Yes — if  you  must  know.  She  was  dead.  And 
even  her  death  cannot  hold  me  back.  Do  you  wonder? 

Leonardo. — Your  soul  is  great.     I  wonder  and  admire. 

Imperia. — To  achieve  anything  in  life  we  must  destroy 
reality,  and  thrust  aside  the  phantoms  of  fact,  which  confuse  and 
hem  us  round,  to  follow  the  only  reality,  the  flight  of  our  witches' 
spirits  on  Saturday  Night,  as  they  turn  to  their  ideal — some 
toward  evil,  to  be  lost  in  its  shadows  forever  like  spectres  of  the 
night,  others  toward  good,  to  dwell  eternally  in  it,  the  children  of 
love  and  of  light.  Good-bye,  Leonardo. 

Leonardo. — Good-bye,  Imperia. 

Imperia. — This  is  the  kiss  of  the  spirit  you  gave  me,  grand 
as  your  ideal! 

CURTAIN 


BENAVENTE  AS  A  MODERN 

BY  JOHN  GARRETT  UNDERBILL 

THE  commanding  position  of  Jacinto   Benavente   in 
Spanish  letters  has  invited  many  explanations.     A 
dominant  influence  in  the  intellectual  life  not  only 
of  a  nation,  but  of  many  nations,  both  old  and  new, 
bound   together  by  the  tie  of  a  common   speech, 
must  be  founded  upon  varied  excellence.     In  some 
of  its  aspects  this  will  be  apparent  at  once  even  to  the    casual 
reader;  in  others  it  will  prove  more  subtly  elusive,  especially  to 
the  foreigner,  accustomed  to  a  literary  and  critical  tradition  in 
many  respects  distinct  from  that  of  the  Spanish  speaking  peoples. 
Benavente  is  essentially  a  modern.     This  is  the  key  to  the 
appreciation  of  his  art. 

In  a  country  such  as  ours,  which  is  without  any  clear  stand- 
ard of  critical  opinion,  where  critical  judgment  is  confused  by  the 
very  quantity  and  promiscuity  of  production,  it  is  long  before 
new  schools  of  writing  meet  with  understanding  or,  indeed,  attract 
attention.  And  the  difficulty  of  the  situation  is  enhanced  by  the 
fact  that  criticism  in  the  United  States  is  for  the  most  part  in  the 
hands  of  journalists  or  of  college  professors,  to  whom  art  is  too 
often  either  so  much  copy  or  an  excuse  for  a  write-up,  or  else  a 
matter  of  rules  and  traditions,  rooted  in  and  most  richly  produc- 
tive at  some  point  in  the  distant  past.  In  this  system  the  writer, 
the  creator  as  such,  has  no  part,  and  it  is  not  too  much  to  say 
that  he  has  little  or  no  influence,  except  in  the  most  indirect 
manner  in  shaping  the  aesthetic  conceptions  which  prevail.  Of 
course  this  is  a  very  evil  thing,  because  the  creative  impulse  is 
the  life  of  art,  and  to  smother  it  under  the  false  face  of  adver- 
tising or  the  dead-weight  of  pedantry  is  to  make  art  something 
remote,  whereas  its  appeal  must  be  by  its  nature  direct,  if  it  is 
to  live  at  all. 

In  art,  as  in  architecture,  we  are  in  need  of  a  zoning  system. 
Calderon  is  not  to  be  judged  as  if  he  were  a  writer  of  comic  opera 
librettos,  as  was  recently  the  case  in  Chicago,  when  his  Mayor  of 
'Lalamea  was  played  in  that  city  by  Mr.  Ditrichstein.  Neither  is 

194 


JOHN  GARRETT  UNDERHILL  195 

a  Benavente  to  be  measured  by  the  scale  which  has  been  marked 
upon  the  dramatic  door  jamb  to  register  the  successive  upward 
shootings  of  a  Jones,  or  even  of  a  Pinero  or  an  Echegaray. 

Now  the  essence  of  modernism  is  that  it  rejects  the  past; 
it  denies  it  validity  in  itself.  Only  as  the  past  is  absorbed  into 
the  present,  only  insofar  as  it  becomes  a  part  of  the  living  tissue 
of  emotion  and  volition  in  us,  and  so  reproduces  itself  in  our  acts, 
can  it  be  said  to  be  alive.  For  the  rest  its  value  is  potential 
merely.  Here  is  the  fault  of  our  liberal  education,  which  it  would 
be  an  irony  to  call  modern.  The  student  is  prepared  for  life  by 
being  taught  what  is  of  no  use  to  him,  and  he  comes  out  of  college 
with  a  degree  and  a  load  of  dead  rhetoric,  obsolete  metaphor, 
meaningless  convention,  hoary  learning,  and  a  farrago  of  useless 
conceptions  with  which  his  days  are  thence  forward  accursed. 
These  things  the  modern  sweeps  away.  There  is  no  reason  why 
our  young  men — or  our  elders — should  write  like  Shakespeare  or 
Virgil.  They  cannot,  besides  it  is  useless  to  repeat  the  old  figures 
with  or  without  the  use  of  quotes.  The  artist  sets  down  what 
he  sees;  he  reproduces  his  experience.  To  do  this  the  right  word 
is  necessary,  and  the  right  word  must  be  exact,  and  so  his  own, 
not  that  of  some  other  man.  When  he  has  found  the  right  word, 
it  is  all  with  which  either  he  or  his  reader  has  concern. 

With  the  recognition  of  this  axiom,  the  great  body  of  school 
exercises  which  we  are  accustomed  to  speak  of  as  contemporary 
poetry  goes  by  the  board. 

Life,  however,  is  not  a  mere  succession  of  perceptions  and 
sensations,  a  process  of  disjointed  thought.  It  is  a  complex  of 
members,  more  or  less  ordered.  The  writer  must  present  these 
complexes  with  a  degree  of  truth  equal  to  that  of  his  detail.  He 
must  not  compose  his  material  with  his  eye  upon  the  effect,  lie- 
must  not  construct  it,  so  as  to  insure  himself  striking  scenes, 
climaxes  at  fixed  points,  and  trim  and  outrig  it  to  conform  with 
certain  "laws"  of  art.  These  things  are  childish,  and  belong  to 
the  moving  picture  world,  and  at  best  to  the  simple  art  of  design. 
The  writer's  material  must  grow  under  his  hand,  developing  itself 
according  to  its  own  nature,  which  is  its  law,  because  its  signi- 
ficance lies  in  the  conclusion  which  was  from  the  beginning  implicit 
or  else  it  is  without  significance  of  any  sort.  The  artist  has  the 
option  of  approaching  his  subject  matter  from  many  sides,  but 
when  once  it  has  been  approached  his  problem  is  determined, 
and  it  lies  within  the  province  of  the  critic  to  appraise  the  result. 
But  all  artificial  generalizations  are  false.  For  this  reason  the 


I96  BENAVENTE  AS  A  MODERN 

theatergoer  avoids  masters  of  "craftmanship"  and  "technique." 
It  is  not  easy  to  surprise  the  present  day  audience  and  it  is  daily 
becoming  more  difficult  to  shock  it. 

Drama  does  not  now  suffer  from  elegance  to  the  same  extent 
as  does  verse,  which  is  the  refuge  of  antiques;  yet  it  would  be 
discourteous  to  apply  ordinary  sense  to  the  consideration  of  the 
general  run  of  plays,  even  to  those  which  make  pretentions  to 
rank  as  what  is  called  "literature." 

I  have  dwelt  upon  these  fundamentals  at  such  length,  be- 
cause what  Benavente  undertook  to  do  when  he  began  to  write 
in  1893  was  to  assure  the  recognition  of  their  truth  as  the  basis, 
the  foundation  principle  of  the  new  Spanish  art.  This  spread 
first  to  this  country  in  the  works  of  the  painters,  brilliant  color- 
ists,  stylists  who  needed  no  translator  other  than  the  light.  But 
modern  Spanish  literature  is  no  less  brilliant,  and  it  is  far  more 
profound.  Of  course  there  have  been,  and  are,  modernists  in 
the  full  sense  in  other  countries,  but  they  have  not  been  able  to 
impose  themselves  decisively  upon  a  commercialized  literature. 
They  are  tolerated;  they  exist.  But  the  important  fact  is  that 
Benavente  succeeded  and  that  with  his  coadjutors,  he  actually 
did  impose  a  new  standard  upon  criticism  and  in  so  doing  infused 
new  vitality  into  letters  and  upon  the  stage.  He  was  not  able  to 
make  an  end  of  bad  writing  in  Spain,  but  he  was  able  to  make 
people  call  it  bad.  In  doing  so  he  brought  back  to  his  country 
the  breadth  and  directness  of  the  realism  of  Cervantes — not  of 
the  Cervantes  of  the  pastorals,  but  of  the  best  portions  of  Don 
Quixote.  It  is  an  art  which  in  its  frank  actuality,  its  uncom- 
promising acceptance  of  the  irreducible  fact,  is  above  all  others 
suited  to  the  Spanish  genius.  Small  wonder  then  that  during 
the  past  twenty  years  its  seeds  have  multiplied  with  astonishing 
effect,  until  his  reputation  has  attained  a  height  hitherto  unsur- 
passed throughout  the  Spanish-speaking  world. 

The  Governor'' s  Wife  and  Saturday  Night,  the  two  plays  with 
which  Benavente  is  introduced  to  readers  of  POET  LORE,  previous 
to  their  inclusion  in  the  collected  edition  of  his  works,  represent 
a  double  aspect  of  this  development,  and  will  be  of  interest  to  all 
students  of  the  theatre. 

The  Governor's  Wife  is  a  striking  example  of  objective  descrip- 
tion, particularly  in  the  first  and  the  third  acts.  It  is  a  play  of 
infinite  detail,  of  detail  heaped  upon  detail.  These  details  speak 
for  themselves;  the  author  has  not  interfered  with  them.  As  the 
aside  and  the  monologue  were  dropped  from  our  drama  with  the 


JOHN  GARRETT  UNDERBILL  197 

close  of  the  past  century,  so  here  Benavente  frees  himself  from 
any  suspicion  of  interpretation  of  his  characters.     In  the  first  act 
they  hardly  speak  in  any  proper  sense  even  for  themselves;  it  is 
their  minor  actions,  the  inconsequential  incidents  which  count, 
and  these  apparently  are  not  ordered  to  any  end,  but  follow  each 
other  in  the  tumultuous  sequence  of  the  bustle  of  a  provincial 
holiday.     There  are  undoubtedly  acts  of  the  nature  of  this  in  the 
French  theatre — one  indeed  need  look  no  further  than  the  earlier 
work  of  Lavedan;  but  in  Lavedan  this  wealth  of  incident  is  all 
arranged    to   contribute   to   an   effect.     Similar   congeries   occur 
among  the  Russians,  as  in  Gorky;  yet  these  partake  of  the  wild, 
and   a  powerful  emotional  element   soon    disengages    itself    and 
dominates  the  rest.     In  The  Governor's  Wife  the  incidents  of  the 
first  act  are  approximately  all  of  equal  value,  nor  have  they  any 
conspicuous  emotional  quality.     Naturally  they  have  been  se- 
lected, composed,  if  one  will,  with  exceptional  adroitness.      Never- 
theless, the  effect  arises  chiefly  from  the  absolute  veracity  and 
minute    photographic    property    of    the    incidents    themselves, 
wholly  objectively  and  by  cumulation.     The  living  scene  appears 
before  the  spectator,  and  he  participates  in  it  in  so  many  ways 
that  he  is  taken  off  his  guard,  until  he  actually  acquires  a  sort  of 
citizenship  in  the  town  of  Moraleda,  whose  people  he  knows,  not 
through  any  literary  artifice,  but  casually  upon  the  street,  or  at 
the  cafe,  some  fairly  well  perhaps,  even    thoroughly,  while  there 
are  others  of  vague  outline,  or  whom  he  fails  to  remember  at  all. 
If   in    The   Governor's    Wife   Benavente   achieved   something 
typically  Spanish,  yet  without  prototype  in  the  Spanish  theatre, 
except  in  his  own  work,  his  example  was  not  to  be  without  imita- 
tors.    Without  these  plays  there  would  have  been  no  Quinteros, 
who,   abandoning  the  Gallic  farce  of  Aza  and  Ramos  Carrion, 
turned   for  their  second  manner  to  this  school.     In   the  novel, 
there  would  have  been  no  Peo  Baroja.     Readers  of  The  Governor's 
Wife  will  at  once  recall  The  City  of  the  Discreet  with  its  multiform 
provincial  life,  actively  somnolent  beneath  an  Audalusian,  not  a 
Castilian  sun.     The  engaging,  disengaged  cynicism  of  Quentin 
and  Manolo  marks  them  as  brothers.     They  are  both  anti-heroes 
whose  soulessness  is  the  soul  of  the  works  in  which  they  appear. 
Baroja,  however,  remains  always  strictly  objective;  his  characters 
must  be  pieced  together  laboriously.      In  Benavente  there   is  a 
strangely    insinuating    quality    which    is    never  absent;  he  seems 
invariably  to  be  subjective,  and  without  visible  means,  or    the 
appearance  of  doing  so,  to  turn  his  character?  inside  out,  and  to 


198  BENAVENTE  AS  A  MODERN 

view  them  with  us  from  all  sides  at  once,  and  at  the  same  time 
to  see  through  them.  He  always  illuminates;  he  knows  no 
peripheries,  even  when  preoccupied  with  what  might  seem  the 
externalities  of  art. 

The  Governor's  Wife  marks  the  ultimate  point  to  which  in 
Benavente's  conception,  the  objective  method,  with  its  peculiar 
limitations,  may  be  carried  in  drama.  Nowhere  in  the  theatre 
is  there  a  play  in  which  the  environment,  for  its  own  savor,  domi- 
nates the  action  so  completely.  This  is  not  only  true  in  the 
exposition,  but  at  the  climax  at  the  clobe  in  that  most  vivid  of 
bull-fights,  which  is  never  seen,  yet  takes  place  under  the  specta- 
tors' very  eyes,  absorbing  the  main  action  entirely,  which  is  con- 
veyed to  the  audience  less  through  the  characters  themselves  as 
individuals,  than  in  the  mass  as  members  of  the  crowd. 

The  production  of  The  Governor's  Wife  was  followed  within 
less  than  two  years  by  that  of  Saturday  Night.  This  powerful 
drama  is  another  example  of  the  new  theatre,  although  in  a 
wholly  different  sphere.  Its  effect  is  curiously  encyclopedic — 
not  chaotic,  but  vast,  unconfined,  in  a  word  cycloramic.  The 
suggestion  is  one  of  reaching  out  indefinitely  in  all  directions,  of  a 
movement  which  goes  on  and  on.  Benavente  has  drawn  this 
tragic  story  out  of  the  environment — in  which  he  leaves  it,  much 
as  a  pattern  is  visible  in  a  brocade.  Here  dependence  upon  en- 
vironment is  relied  on  for  the  impression  of  universality  and 
power.  The  environment  ceases  to  be  the  subject  and  becomes 
the  guarantor  of  the  play.  It  is  interesting  to  note  how  the 
absoluteness  of  the  objective  method  which  was  employed  in  the 
comedy,  is  tempered  in  this  play.  Serious  drama  must  depend 
of  necessity  upon  emotion.  Character  and  dramatic  action  are 
not  wholly  susceptible  of  purely  objective  interpretation,  but 
intimate  and  personal,  and  so  must  be  directly  conveyed.  A 
sound  conclusion  is  impossible  upon  data  which  are  imperfectly 
known.  Saturday  Night  is  the  furthest  advance  of  Benavente 
in  this  method  in  the  realm  of  serious  drama. 

Benavente  is  the  most  versatile  of  dramatists.  This  is  not 
only  true  upon  the  technical  side,  but  in  the  extraordinary  range 
and  complexity  of  human  feeling  and  motive  which  is  invariable 
throughout  his  theatre.  Even  his  first  period,  vvhich  may  be  said 
to  have  ended  shortly  after  the  production  of  Saturday  Night, 
exhibits  almost  every  shade  and  kind  of  dramatic  experiment. 
He  has  tried  them  all.  But  he  was  born  with  the  gift  of  charac- 
ter, of  penetration  into  man's  mind,  insight.  He  always  dis- 


JOHN  GARRETT  UNDERBILL  199 

plays  an  unusual  faculty  of  interpretation.  This  appears  in 
the  beginning.  With  the  lapse  of  years  it  has  become  more 
pronounced,  and  in  his  later  plays  Benavente  seems  to  feel  that 
in  the  immediate,  or  if  the  phrase  may  be  admitted,  the  trans- 
parent presentation  of  character,  through  a  style  potent  in  strange- 
ly fertile  suggestion,  the  truest  of  dramatic  effects  is  to  be  attained. 
Subjective  in  the  extreme,  it  yields  a  prompt  result,  nor  does  he 
return  again  as  a  chief  reliance  to  the  impersonal  objectivity  of 
an  earlier  day. 

For,  in  the  final  analysis,  the  theatre  of  Benavente  is  a 
theatre  of  character,  in  the  heart,  in  the  will,  in  the  mind,  and  in 
the  spirit,  which  vitalizes  them  and  in  which  they  become  audible 
in  mysterious  undertone.  He  is  an  unsurpassed  observer  of 
men.  He  comprehends  them;  and  not  only  this,  but  he  com- 
prehends them  at  a  glance.  And  he  comprehends  woman  at  a 
glance.  The  machinery  of  life — and  in  life  the  machinery  ior 
the  most  part  appertains  particularly  to  what  is  distinctively 
man's  life — plays  small  part  in  his  scenes.  He  penetrates  to 
essential  character,  which,  except  in  superficial  instances,  lies 
beyond  occupation.  The  result  of  problems  concerns  him,  the 
postulates  which  inhere  in  their  solution,  the  working  out  of  these 
in  human  terms,  in  feeling  and  ways  of  thought,  and  in  acts 
afterward  of  human  and  irremediable  import.  Upon  occasion 
his  psychology  is  so  keenly  subtle,  so  completely  exact  that  it 
becomes  physical,  and  embodies  the  character  before  our  eyes  in 
the  fleshly  reality  of  fact.  At  other  times,  in  more  intellectual 
forms,  his  people  appear  to  the  reader,  with  an  insubstantiality 
as  of  disembodied  spirits,  existing  almost  impersonally  in  the 
domain  of  the  abstractions  of  pure  thought.  All  classes  of  men 
and  women  are  reproduced  in  his  work,  but  there  are  no  types. 
Through  all  his  astounding  product  one  will  search  in  vain  for  one 
villain;  and  one  will  search  in  vain  for  one  hero.  Nature  does 
not  mark  off  from  others  her  favorite  sons.  There  is  nothing 
theatric  in  his  genius.  The  danger  which  besets  the  reader  ot 
Benavente  is  that  of  underestimating  his  worth,  or  rather  of 
failing  at  first  to  estimate  it  at  its  true  value.  He  is  free  from 
posed  problems  and  sententious  precepts,  innocent  of  adventi- 
tious appeal;  he  neither  courts  nor  wins  the  unimaginative,  the 
dull  mind,  nor  is  his  stage  more  portentous  than  life,  but  from 
page  to  page  and  scene  to  scene  it  lives,  lives  with  a  strange, 
vivifying  power,  always  present,  always  true,  which  infuses  even 
the  slightest  detail  with  the  significance  of  the  greatest,  and 


200  BENAVENTE  AS  A  MODERN 

makes  his  work  in  its  totality  one  of  the  most  remarkable  human 
and,  in  the  modern  sense,  spiritual  documents  that  literature 
has  known.  Benavente  suffers  no  illusions;  he  sees  and  he  knows 
— and  in  some  manner  he  contrives  to  make  us  feel  that  he  always 
has  known.  His  is  the  most  sophisticated  of  arts,  because  it  is 
the  finest  flower  of  an  old,  anciently  corrupt,  disillusioned  civiliza- 
tion, which  has  at  last  awakened  spiritually,  and  searched  itself, 
taking  account  of  the  evil  with  what  there  is  of  the  good,  and 
set  itself  bluntly  and  unflinchingly  again  to  become  strong. 

This  fascinating  theatre,  especially  upon  its  idealistic  side, 
has  been  the  most  potent  force  in  the  upbuilding  of  modern 
Spain. 


DEPENDENCE 

BY  GUSTAV  DAVIDSON 

We  need  each  other:  I  am  weak  without 

Your  faith  in  my  endeavors,  which  is  crown 

Above  the  valuing.     Whether  has  flown 

The  best  of  hopes,  and,  overwhelmed  with  doubt 

I  sink  inglorious,  or  midst  the  rout 

Of  vanquished  rivals,  honored  grows  my  name, 

It  cannot  matter:  for  I  count  it  fame 

If  your  voice  only  in  acclaim  rings  out. 

And  equally  I  serve  you,  having  freed 
Your  soul  from  doubt,  to  win  enlargement,  scope, 
And  prove  your  life  more  various  and  wide. 
Thus  are  our  spirits  linked  in  mutual  need 
And  sweet  dependence  on  that  valiant  hope 
Which  bears  us  safe  across  life's  ruthless  tide! 


BENAVENTE  AS  AN  INTERPRET- 
ER  OF  WOMAN 

BY  MARIANO  ALARCON 

JACINTO  BENAVENTE  is  the  glory  and  pride  of  Spanish 
letters  of  the  present  day. 
How  has  the  foremost  of  our  contemporary  drama- 
tists been  able  to  attract  our  minds  with  such  magnetic 
power,    that   he   dominates    and   captivates   them  and 
plays  with  them  as  his  own,  when  and  how  he  will? 
Simply  by  letting  women  talk. 

Despite  the  fact  that  Benavente  is  the  flower  of  the  Spanish 
genius  of  our  time,  perhaps  this  happy  faculty  with  which  he 
imparted  to  his  pages  a  subtlety  akin  to  that  of  exquisitely  blended 
perfumes,  which  can  be  appreciated  only  by  the  most  refined 
tastes,  made  the  rise  to  popularity  of  even  such  an  extraordinary 
genius  of  the  theatre  difficult  in  the  beginning.  To  a  certain 
extent  the  Spanish  and  Hispano-American  peoples  are  misogynists 
by  nature,  and,  moreover,  they  have  been  not  a  little  wedded  in 
the  past  to  the  more  romantic  and  violent  theatrical  traditions, 
which  still  ruled  the  naive  souls  of  our  fathers  with  unquestioned 
sway  during  the  latter  half  of  the  past  century. 

But  it  is  impossible  to  stay  the  laws  of  Nature.  The  march 
of  progress  is  steady  and  inevitable,  and,  as  spectators,  we  daily- 
recognize  its  inflexibility  even  in  the  realm  of  the  smallest  and 
most  insignificant  details.  Evolution  was  not  to  stop  her  course 
to  make  an  exception  which  would  prevent  the  ultimate  triumph 
of  the  plays  of  this  iconoclast  of  the  theatre. 

When  Benavente's  first  comedies  were  performed,  the  specta- 
tors received  them  with  indifference  or  else  with  unconcealed 
contempt.  They  sat  as  in  a  state  of  apparently  arrested  develop- 
ment, whether  more  childish  or  more  brutally  rude  in  demeanor 
it  would  be  profitless  to  inquire.  But  there  was  genius  in  his 
plays,  and  in  all  the  controversies  which  ensued,  this  genius  was 
the  one  constant  factor.  In  the  end  genius  rose  superior  to 
popular  indifference  and  disrespect. 

201 


202  BENAVENTE  AS  AN  INTERPRETER  OF  WOMAN 

It  did  not  matter  greatly  that  at  the  outset  critical  opinion 
was  adverse.  This  was  partly  due  to  ignorance,  partly  to  malice. 
But  again  genius  was  the  determining  factor,  and  it  soon  put  to 
rout  the  malevolence  of  hostile  critics,  and  educated  those  critics 
who  were  merely  ignorant  in  good  faith. 

Society  sought  to  isolate  the  dramatist  through  a  conspiracy 
of  silence  and  neglect,  to  intimidate  him  by  ostracizing  him  in  so 
far  as  it  was  able.  The  conspiracy  was  not  successful.  The 
possession  of  exceptional  genius  isolated  him  even  more  from  his 
fellows  by  its  very  nature.  He  was  conscious  of  superiority  over 
those  with  whom  he  came  into  contact.  Again  genius  was  the 
deciding  factor.  It  enabled  him  to  continue  to  produce  works 
of  such  remarkable  beauty,  that  in  themselves  they  were  more 
than  sufficient  to  bring  to  naught  any  conspiracy  and  to  trans- 
mute the  activities  of  its  promoters  into  respectful,  submissive 
applause. 

All  opposition  and  all  enemies  were  equally  impotent  to 
depress  his  spirit,  however  numerous  or  in  whatever  form.  They 
did  not  discourage  him,  instead  they  fired  him  with  determina- 
tion to  overcome,  strengthened  his  resolution,  and  prepared  him 
to  meet  the  final  test  in  the  struggle  when  it  should  arrive,  surer 
of  the  outcome  after  every  trial,  and  more  supremely  confident 
of  ultimate  victory  because  certain  of  himself  to  the  point  of 
triumph,  both  definitive  and  complete.  Indeed  victory  was 
never  in  doubt  from  the  beginning,  Because  genius  was  present 
from  the  beginning,  and  victory  always  smiles  upon  genius,  and 
metamorphoses  the  burden  which  it  bears  upon  its  back,  ap- 
parently without  hope,  into  wings. 

Senavente  continued  to  advance  by  dint  of  unceasing  labor, 
an  apostle  of  ideals.  At  length  he  opened  a  narrow  footpath  for 
himself  through  the  thick  tangle  of  provincial  and  national 
prejudice  and  preoccupation.  His  enemies  strewed  his  way  with 
obstacles,  and  it  was  not  without  cost.  Time  passed,  and  he 
still  labored  on  unremittingly,  until  today  the  narrow  footpath 
has  became  a  broad  highway  down  which  the  multitude  of  art- 
lovers  flock  the  world  over,  peering  forward  to  do  homage  to  the 
once  lonely  pioneer.  All  those  of  his  race  who  are  engaged  in  the 
production  of  beautiful  things  follow  down  it,  eager  to  learn,  and 
every  one  of  them  is  treading  in  the  footsteps  of  the  master.  He 
made  the  path  with  his  own  hands,  and  now  fame  too  has  sought 
him  down  it  through  all  the  horizons  of  the  Spanish-speaking 
lands,  upon  which  the  sun  never  sets. 


MARIANO  ALARCON  203 

There  have  been  few  instances  in  the  history  of  any  nation 
in  which  homage  and  applause  have  been  bestowed  with  such 
unanimity,  such  consensus  of  judgment,  as  upon  this  versatile 
creator  of  beautiful  women.  In  my  opinion,  it  is  his  gift  in  this, 
his  singular  ability  to  create,  to  conjure  up  the  souls  of  living 
women,  that  has  won  him  the  affection,  respect  and  admiration 
of  the  Spanish-speaking  peoples.  All  his  women  are  absolutely 
individual  and  distinct,  in  spite  of  the  wonderful  profusion  in 
which  they  occur  throughout  the  range  of  his  work;  each  is  differ- 
ent from  every  other,  each  has  her  peculiar  personality,  each 
her  own  character  apart  from  that  of  all  the  others,  and  yet, 
although  they  are  so  many,  not  one  of  them  is  lacking  in  elusive 
feminine  charm,  which  harmonizes  all  their  differences  in  its 
persuasiveness. 

We  must  turn  to  the  drama  of  Benavente  for  the  purest 
and  finest  of  all  emotions — intellectual  apprehension  of  and 
sympathy  with  the  soul  of  woman.  In  bringing  this  to  us,  he 
has  redeemed  the  theatre  from  another  condition,  which  was  not 
so  intellectual,  with  which  the  stage  of  the  century  which  has 
just  closed  regaled  us  through  the  exhibition  of  unadulterated 
feminine  sex  instinct. 

The  Spanish  peoples  have  always  been  quick  of  compre- 
hension. Although  their  expression  may  be  over  voluble  at 
times,  it  could  never  be  urged  with  justice  that  they  were  deficient 
in  appreciation.  They  owe  to  this  distinguished  dramatist  a 
tremendous  debt,  because  the  study,  the  appreciation  of  woman 
is  one  of  the  principal  occupations  of  life.  It  is  particularly  so 
among  us  of  the  Spanish  stock,  thanks,  nodoubt,  to  the  influence  of 
a  Greco-Latin  ancestry.  In  consequence  it  was  impossible  for 
the  public  long  to  withold  the  sanction  of  its  favor.  No  wonder 
that  it  showered  its  admiration  upon  this  unrivalled  psychologist, 
who  first  revealed  to  it  the  hitherto  but  ill-understood,  bewilder- 
ing feminine  consciousness,  and  spread  its  ieatures  abroad,  and 
the  knowledge  of  it  through  every  stratum  of  our  nations.  Coran: 
populo,  Benavente  has  made  it  easy  for  every  one  of  us  to  enjoy 
in  imagination — for  at  heart  man  is  an  inveterate  dreamer — the 
pleasures  and  passions,  the  tender  sympathies  and  confidences 
which  lie  hidden  in  our  souls,  in  the  depths  of  ourbeing,  waiting 
forexpression  with  the  woman  of  our  choice,  but  which  we  are  able 
to  enjoy  in  his  plays  vicariously  with  the  very  women  of  our 
fancy,  who  seem  molded  and  suited  exactly  to  the  individuality 
and  idiosyncrasies  of  us  each.  Here  are  delicate  feminine  spirits 


204  BENAVENTE  AS  AN  INTERPRETER  OF  WOMAN 

whose  motions  a  cunning  hand  has  caught  with  the  certain 
mastery  of  the  seer,  versed  in  every  convolution  and  aberration 
of  the  feminine  temperament,  which  is  presented  to  the  eye,  now 
in  the  most  evanescent  and  softest  of  emotional  tones,  now  in  rough 
brusque  outline,  or  now  shading  to  the  remote,  the  vaguely  roman- 
tic. A  rare  insight  has  guided  his  hand.  He  has  practised  the 
precept  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  in  his  Treatise  on  Painting,  giving 
to  each  character  the  maximum  force  and  truth  of  expression, 
and  illuminating  them  all  outward  from  within  with  the  light  of  a 
varied  intelligence,  always  diverse  yet  always  beautiful,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  every  one  of  them  has  been  endowed  by  his 
hand  with  something  that  is  his  own.  There  are  innumerable 
portraits  in  the  Royal  Gallery  of  Noble  Women,  but  the  most 
aptly,  the  most  suggestively  drawn  will  be  found  in  the  captivat- 
ing living  collection  of  the  plays  of  Jacinto  Benavente.  It  is  a 
collection  which  has  been  amassed  with  infinite  zest  by  a  taste 
more  congenial  to  the  refinements  of  a  sublimated  cosmopolitan- 
ism, than  to  the  frank  and  somewhat  brutal  asperities  of  historic 
Spanish  life. 

Nevertheless  the  revelation  which  Benavente  has  made  of 
woman  to  man  is  not  his  greatest  service.  He  has  revealed  woman 
to  herself.  She  reaches  her  own  soul  in  his  plays,  where  it  seems 
projected  as  if  in  a  mirror  before  her,  where,  seated,  it  meets  her 
astonished  eyes. 

I  have  no  hesitation  in  asserting  that  no  other  single  factor 
has  contributed  to  so  great  a  degree  to  Benavente's  success  since 
the  beginning,  nor  to  the  present  moment  continues  so  to  aug- 
ment the  vogue  of  his  plays,  as  his  revelation  of  the  heart  of 
woman.  In  this  he  has  conferred  upon  literature  a  tremendous 
boon.  But  for  this  appeal,  the  unresponsiveness  with  which  the 
Benaventian  comedies  were  obliged  to  contend  for  a  time,  in 
order  to  maintain  a  precarious  existence  upon  the  stage,  would 
have  endured  much  longer  than  it  did,  although  in  defiance  of 
justice,  and  as  a  stigma  upon  our  intelligence  and  good  name. 

Fortunately,  gratitude  is  a  powerful  element  in  all  heated 
controversies,  where  adequate  reason  for  it  exists — even  in  con- 
troversies which  concern  the  merits  of  artists  and  of  their  work. 
Perfect  impartiality  is  an  empty  phrase;  we  judge  things  accord- 
ing as  we  like  or  dislike  them.  Empassioned  reason  and  personal, 
feeling  find  their  most  fertile  soil,  as  we  know,  in  the  heart  of 
woman,  and  these  have  imposed  upon  woman  a  debt  of  gratitude 
that  is  unforgettable  to  her  most  searching  and  profound  histori- 


MARIANO  ALARCON  205 

an.  Her  gratitude  and  her  appreciation  bore  the  brunt  of  the 
fray  in  the  decisive  triumph  of  his  theatre,  and  they  have  sus- 
tained it  loyally  ever  since  in  undiminished  popularity. 

In  legendary  Greece,  in  the  city  of  Delphos,  a  temple  was 
erected  to  Apollo,  above  whose  portal  were  inscribed  the  words, 
so  that  all  men  might  read:  "Know  thyself."  Another  temple 
has  since  been  erected  in  another  city,  not  less  fortunate,  to  the 
goddess  Venus,  above  whose  portal  are  inscribed  the  words,  so 
that  all  women  may  read:  "Know  too  thyself." 

This  temple,  it  is  needless  to  say,  is  the  theatre  of  Jacinto 
Benavente. 


RENCONTRE 

BY  GUSTAV  DAVIDSON 

I  felt,  when  yesterday  we  met  by  chance, 

That  you  were  destined  in  this  casual  way 

To  give  new  lease  of  energy  and  play 

Unto  my  drooping  art.     One  full,  warm  glance 

From  your  love-brimming  eyes  fell  like  a  lance 

Upon  my  soul,  pricking  it  to  aspire 

As  once  it  had.     Now,  in  the  reviving  fire, 

I  glow  again  and  view  the  wide  expanse! 

You  came  and  smote  to  life  each  laggard  dream, 
Visions  of  attainment  made  twice  fair. 
And  hope  renewed,  with  promise  of  avail. 
In  your  sustaining  strength  I  wage  supreme 
With  the  contenders  for  the  upper  air, 
Knowing  that  soon  I  shall  o'er  all  prevail! 


OVID  AS  A  SHORT-STORY  WRIT- 
ER IN  THE  LIGHT  OF  MOD- 
ERN TECHNIQUE 

BY  ALEXANDER  KADJSON,  A.  M. 


THE  works  of  Ovid  have  been  the  object  of  a  vast 
amount   of  critical   investigation   on   the   part   of 
classical  scholars  without  number.     The  Amores, 
the  Tristia,  the  Heroides,  the  Metamorphoses,  have 
been  explored  and  re-explored  from  literally  count- 
less angles.     Never  yet,  however,  has  the  Roman 
poet  been  viewed  in  the  light  of  a  potential  contributor — mutatis 
mutandis,  as  the  pedants  say — to  the  popular  magazines  publish- 
ing the  best  type  of  short-stories  in,  say,  the  year  1900,  or  1910, 
or,  better  still,  1917.     Such  an  investigation  assuredly  needs  no 
apology;  for  Ovid,  however  interesting  to  a  certain  type  of  mind 
may  be  the  purely  linguistic  elements  inherent  in  his  poetry,  was 
par  excellence  the  story-teller  of  antiquity,  and  his  Metamorphoses 
its  most  notable  collection  of  short  stories. 

What  chance,  then,  would  Ovid  (or,  to  speak  somewhat  more 
precisely,  an  Ovid)  stand  with  a  present-day  editor  whose  prac- 
tice it  was  to  reject  with  unfailing  regularity — as  none,  of  course, 
do — such  "short-stories"  as  did  not  illustrate  what  he  conceived 
to  be  the  correct  modern  technique?  With  a  view  to  determin- 
ing the  answer  to  this  question,  I  endeavored  some  time  ago  to 
analyze  half  a  dozen  selections  taken  at  random  from  the  Meta- 
morphoses. It  was  evident  at  the  start  that,  if  I  was  to  arrive  at 
any  tangible  results,  I  should  be  obliged  to  adopt  certain  canons 
of  criticism  before  proceeding  with  the  examination  proper.  To 
resort  to  the  so-called  "method  of  sympathetic  induction,"  I 
felt,  would  have  been  open  to  the  rather  serious  objection  that 
the  "method  "  in  question  may  lead  anywhither  or  nowhither,  de- 
pending upon  the  fancy  of  the  writer.  I  therefore  decided  (though 

206 


ALEXANDER  KADISON  A.  M.  207 

this  course  itself  is  admittedly  not  without  some  drawbacks)  to 
accept  as  authoritative — for  the  time  being,  at  any  rate — the 
opinions  of  some  recognized  writer  on  short-story  technique. 

With  all  due  respect  for,  and  deference  to,  college  professors 
as  a  class,  I  ventured  to  assume  (and  I  hope  some  college  pro- 
fessors may  be  able  to  agree  with  me)  that  my  authority  ought 
preferably  to  be  not  a  college  professor,  however  excellent  a 
theoretical  knowledge  of  the  subject  he  might  command  ;  but 
rather,  if  possible,  a  man  who  had  actually  spent  some  years  in 
an  editorial  capacity  on  one  of  the  better  class  of  magazines 
affording  a  market  for  the  writer  of  short-stories.  Thus  I  came 
to  choose  as  the  authority  to  be  followed  Dr.  J.  Berg  Esenwein, 
than  whom  there  is,  I  believe,  no  one  more  competent  to  speak 
on  the  subject  of  the  short-story.  Dr.  Esenwein,  it  may  be  re- 
marked, held  the  position  of  editor  of  Lippincott*  s  Magazine  for 
about  a  decade,  and  also  is  the  author  of  several  books  treating 
of  the  short-story.  It  was  from  his  work  entitled  Writing  the 
Short-Story  that  I  derived  the  canons  of  criticism  by  means  of 
which  I  was  enabled  to  consider,  on  a  purely  deductive  basis,  the 
six  selections  from  the  Metamorphoses  to  which  I  have  alluded 
already. 

II 

Without  having  entertained  any  foregone  conclusions  what- 
soever, I  found  that  whereas  four  of  the  six  selections  I  examined 
could  not  be  regarded  as  short-stories  at  all,  but  were  rather 
tales,  one  of  the  six  was  a  perfect  short-story  from  the  stand- 
point of  modern  technique,  and  another  an  almost  perfect  example 
of  that  literary  form.  The  number  of  instances  investigated  was 
manifestly  too  small  to  admit  of  my  formulating  any  very  general 
conclusion  as  to  the  frequency  of  the  short-story  in  the  works  of 
Ovid,  or  even  in  the  Met 'amor -phases  alone.  It  was  certain,  how- 
ever, incredible  though  it  might  seem,  that  the  Roman  poet— 
who,  having  passed  away  in  the  year  17  A.  D.,  has  now  been  dead 
for  exactly  nineteen  centuries — both  could  and  did  write  stories 
allied  in  respect  of  technique  to  the  most  popular  form  of  litera- 
ture prevalent  at  the  present  day. 

Now,  this  is  the  more  remarkable  by  reason  of  the  fact  that 
it  has  been  expressly  stated  that  "ancient  and  early  medieval 
tales  are  of  three  kinds:  the  simple  anecdote,  the  scenario  for 
condensed  plot),  and,  very  rarely,  the  real  short-story,"  (II  ntin* 


208  OVID  AS  A  SHORT-STORY  WRITER 

the  Short-Story,  p.  4).  On  the  basis  of  my  little  study,  I  feel  justi- 
fied in  surmising,  to  say  no  more,  that  in  Ovid,  at  least,  the 
presence  of  the  short-story  is  probably  not  so  rare  a  phenomenon 
as  Dr.  Esenwein's  assertion  (which  is  based  upon  the  opinion  of 
Professor  C.  S.  Baldwin,  author  of  American  Short  Stories)  might 
lead  one  to  suppose. 

Owing  to  limitations  of  space  it  would  hardly  be  feasible, 
nor  even  did  space  permit  could  it  be  very  profitable,  to  record 
in  detail  the  complete  results  of  my  examination,  especially  since, 
as  has  been  said,  only  one  of  the  half-dozen  selections  analyzed 
proved  to  be  a  perfect  example  of  the  short-story.  It  may  be  of 
interest,  however,  to  have  the  examination  in  the  case  of  that 
single  selection  set  forth  in  these  pages,  not  least  because  it  so 
happens  that  the  two  leading  characters,  Pyramis  and  Thisbe, 
are  the  literary  prototypes  of  Shakespeare's  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

Ill 

The  story  of  Pyramis  and  Thisbe  embraces  lines  55  through 
1 66  of  the  fourth  book  of  the  Metamorphoses.  Pyramis  and 
Thisbe,  two  lovers  of  Babylon  whose  parents  relentlessly  oppose 
their  marriage,  agree  to  meet  at  the  tomb  of  old  King  Ninus, 
beyond  the  city  walls.  Thisbe,  the  first  to  arrive  at  the  ap- 
pointed spot,  encounters  a  lioness,  and  while  fleeing  from  the 
beast  loses  her  veil.  The  lioness,  her  jaws  all  red  with  the  newly- 
spilt  blood  of  cattle,  tears  the  veil  with  her  gory  mouth.  Pyramis 
finds  it,  and,  believing  Thisbe  to  have  been  devoured,  forthwith 
stabs  himself.  Both  the  root  and  the  fruit  of  the  adjacent  mul- 
berry tree  are  stained  with  his  blood  and  assume  a  purple  hue. 
Thisbe,  having  been  in  concealment,  returns,  and  slays  herself 
with  Pyramis'  sword.  In  accordance  with  her  dying  wish,  ex- 
pressed in  an  impassioned  prayer  to  the  gods,  the  mulberries — 
and  thereafter  all  mulberries — retain  their  dark  color,  an  eternal 
memorial  of  the  ill-starred  lovers. 

Positive  Canon  No.  i:  The  true  short-story  is  marked  by  a 
single  predominating  incident.     (Esenwein,  p.  30.) 

Does  the  story  of  Pyramis  and  Thisbe  exhibit  a  single  pre- 
dominating incident?  Obviously  it  does,  all  that  takes  place  at 
the  tomb  of  Ninus  constituting  that  incident.  In  the  very  first 
respect,  then,  the  selection  conforms  to  the  requirements  of 
modern  short-story  technique. 


ALEXANDER  KADISON,  A.  M.  209 

Positive  Canon  No.  2:  The  true  short-story  is  marked  by  a 
single  pre-eminent  character,  or  rarely  by  two  chief  charac- 
ters that  are  strictly  co-ordinate.  (Esenwein,  p.  30.) 

Do  we  find  a  single  pre-eminent  character,  or  two  chief 
characters  that  are  strictly  co-ordinate?  Clearly,  we  do;  and  the 
two  chief  characters  are  announced  at  the  very  beginning  of  the 
story  (lines  55-56): 

"  Pyramis  et  Thisbe,  juvenum  pulcherrimus  alter, 
altera,  quas  Oriens  habuit,  praelata  puellis, " 

— "Pyramis  and  Thisbe,  he  the  most  beauteous  of  youths,  she 
the  fairest  maid  in  all  the  Orient."  The  leading  characters, 
moreover,  are  strictly  co-ordinate  and  complementary.  Without 
either  one  of  them,  the  story,  manifestly,  would  not  have  been 
possible. 

The  only  other  characters  mentioned  in  the  course  of  the 
narrative — namely,  the  gods,  t.,e  respective  fathers  of  Pyramis 
and  Thisbe,  and  possibly  the  lovers'  guardians — play  no  active 
part  in  connection  with  the  events  recounted  and,  far  from  being 
chief  characters,  are  on  the  contrary  distinctly  subordinate  ones. 
As  to  King  Ninus,  long  since  "  dead  and  turned  to  clay, "  at  whose 
tomb  the  lovers  meet,  nothing  need  be  said,  the  story  not  being 
grounded  upon  spiritism;  and  as  for  the  lioness,  the  unsuspecting 
root  of  all  the  trouble,  it  may  be  pointed  out  that  as  an  animal 
and  a  merely  impersonal  agent  or  tool,  she  is  not  properly  a 
character  in  the  technical  sense. 

Positive  Canon  No.  3:  The  true  short-story  must  display 
imagination.  (Esenwein,  p.  30.) 

Is  the  story  under  consideration  an  imaginative  one?  This 
question  plainly  requires  no  formal  answer.  It  is  sufficient  to 
recall  that  the  Metamorphoses  was  avowedly  a  compendium  of 
mythological  narratives,  and  that  the  story  ot  Pyramis  and  Thisbe 
constitutes  one  of  that  number.  Yet,  in  addition,  Ovid  explicitly 
indicates  (line  53)  that  the  story  was  no  common  and  well-known 
tale,  but  one  decidedly  out  of  the  ordinary: 

"      ...     haec     .     .     .     vulgaris  fabula  non  est" 
—"this  is   no  common  tale."     And   in  displaying  imagination, 
the  selection  again  conforms  to  the  demands  of  modern  short- 
story  technique. 


210  OVID  AS  A  SHORT-STORY  WRITER 

Positive  Canon  No.  4:  The  true  short-story  is  marked  by  the 
presence  of  a  plot.  (Esenwein,  p.  30.)  "We  must  look  for 
one  essential  feature  of  a  true  plot — complication,  by  which 
I  mean  not  complexity,  but  a  happening,  a  crisis.  Strictly, 
narratives  without  crises  are  without  plots,  and  .  .  .  are 
tales  rather  than  short-stories.  In  the  former,  events  take 
a  simple  course;  whereas  in  the  latter  this  course  is  inter- 
rupted by  a  complication.  Something  happens,  and  that 
happening  starts,  or  sometimes  actually  constitutes,  the  plot* 
The  rival  interferes  with  the  lover,  or  the  'villain'  carries  out 
his  scheme,  or  an  accident  happens,  or  a  hidden  condition  is 
disclosed;  whereupon  things  are  tied  up,  and  the  reader  re- 
mains more  or  less  in  suspense  until  the  denouement. "  (Ibid., 
P-  74-) 

Now,  Dr.  Esenwein's  description  of  the  one  essential  feature 
of  a  true  plot  so  exactly  fits  our  selection  that  one  might  almost 
suppose  that  he  had  the  story  of  Pyramis  and  Thisbe  in  mind  at 
the  time  he  wrote  that  description.  Clearly,  the  "happening" 
or  "crisis"  is  the  tearing  of  Thisbe's  veil  by  the  lioness.  "Some- 
thing happens,  and  that  happening  starts  .  .  .  the  plot." 
"An  accident  happens."  Our  story  very  definitely  has  a  plot, 
and  thus  is  characterized  by  the  fourth  requisite  of  the  true 
short-story. 

Positive  Canon  No.  5:  The   true    short-story  is  marked  by 
compression.     (Esenwein,  p.  30.) 

Positive  Canon  No.   6:  It  is  marked    also  by  organization. 
(Ibid) 

Positive  Canon  No.  7:  Finally,  it  is  marked  by  unity  of  im- 
pression.    (Ibid.} 

In  order  that  this  analysis  may  not  be  unduly  prolonged,  let 
us  consider  the  fifth,  sixth,  and  seventh  indispensable  character- 
istics of  the  true  short-story  all  together,  as  does  Dr.  Esenwein 
when  he  sums  them  up  in  the  statement  that  "the  details  .  .  . 
are  so  compressed,  and  the  whole  treatment  so  organized,  as  to 
produce  a  single  impression."  Now,  the  entire  story,  with  its 
wealth  of  details,  is  related  by  Ovid  within  the  meagre  space  of 
one  hundred  and  twelve  lines  of  hexameter  verse.  The  mere 
statement  of  this  fact  should  suffice  to  show  that  the  story  ex- 


ALEXANDER  KADISON,  A.  M.  211 

hibits  compression;  and  that  compression  is  so  very  marked  as 
inevitably  to  result,  of  itself,  in  a  unity  of  impression.  And  as 
for  organization,  a  reading  of  the  story  itself,  or  even  of  a  synop- 
sis of  it,  such,  for  example,  as  the  one  I  have  given,  is  sufficient 
evidence  for  me — here,  to  be  sure,  opinions  theoretically  might 
differ,  though  I  fail  to  see  how  they  could  reasonably  do  so  in 
the  present  instance — that  the  whole  treatment  is  indeed  "so 
organized  as  to  produce  a  single  impression."  One  finds,  there- 
fore, compression,  the  fifth  characteristic  of  the  short-story, 
organization,  the  sixth,  and  unity  of  impression,  the  seventh. 

To  what  extent  this  organization  was  conscious,  and  to  what 
extent  it  was  not,  is  doubtless  an  interesting  question,  though 
probably  an  insoluble  one;  but,  in  any  event,  the  solution  to  it 
does  not  concern  us  in  connection  with  the  present  examination. 
It  would  manifestly  make  not  a  particle  of  difference,  as  far  as 
technique  went,  if  the  organization  (to  suppose  an  impossible 
case)  had  been  entirely  unconscious — a  result  of  genius  pure  and 
undefiled.  It  is  the  finished  product  with  which  we  are  con- 
cerned— the  objective  condition  of  certain  of  Ovid's  writings, 
not  the  subjective  condition  of  the  writer. 

IV 

Remarkable  though  it  must  appear — and  justly — Ovid's 
story  of  Pyramis  and  Thisbe  is  thus  shown  to  be  a  perfect  ex- 
ample of  the  short-story  in  the  light  of  modern  technique.  It 
has  been  tested  by  all  the  positive  canons  of  criticism  laid  down 
by  an  authority  on  the  subject  of  short-story  writing,  those 
canons  having  been  drawn  up  without  reference  to  the  selection 
in  question.  I  myself,  as  already  stated,  entertained  no  foregone 
conclusions  in  the  matter,  and  have  neither  attempted  nor  desired 
to  force  any  such  conclusions. 

Yet  one  naturally  cannot  help  being  skeptical  in  the  face  of 
such  a  striking  revelation.  The  question  inevitably  arises  wheth- 
er the  story,  after  all,  may  not  be  something  other  than  a  short- 
story,  despite  its  apparent  resemblance  to  that  literary  form. 
Let  us,  then,  see  whether  it  is  or  not.  Just  as  we  have  applied 
our  positive  canons,  let  us  now  impartially  apply  the  negative 
ones,  as  a  check  upon  the  results  thus  far  arrived  at. 

Negative  Canon  No.  I:     "The  short-story  is  not  a  condensed 
novel     .     .     .     The    short-story    produces    a    singleness    of 


212  OVID  AS  A  SHORT-STORY  WRITER 

effect  denied  to  the  novel  ...  It  must  differ  from  the 
novel  in  scope  and  in  structure.  Speaking  broadly,  the 
novel  is  expansive,  the  short-story  intensive.  The  great 
novelists  sought  'the  all-embracing  view'  of  life,  the  short- 
story  writer  looks  upon  a  special  .  .  .  character,  inci- 
dent, or  experience."  Unlike  the  novel,  which  "is  often 
complicated  by  episodes  and  contributory  sub-plots,"  "the 
short-story  exploits  a  single  predominating  incident,  to  which 
the  other  incidents — few,  if  any — must  be  subordinate  and 
directly  contributory."  "In  its  singleness  of  effect,  in  its 
more  minute  scope,  and  in  its  simplicity  of  structure,  the 
short-story  proves  itself  to  be  something  quite  different 
from  a  mere  condensed  novel."  (Esenwein,  pp.  19-23.) 

We  have  seen  already  that  the  story  of  Pyramis  and  Thisbe 
produces  singleness  of  effect,  or  unity  of  impression,  which  is  the 
same  thing,  and  that  it  therein  resembles  the  short-story.  Fur- 
thermore, since  the  story  of  Pyramis  and  Thisbe  definitely  deals 
with  a  special  pair  of  characters  who  are  strictly  co-ordinate  (the 
dramatic  equivalent  of  "a  special  .  .  .  character");  since 
it  definitely  deals  with  " a  special  .  .  .  incident, "  "a  special 
experience;"  since  it  cannot  by  any  manner  of  means 
be  said  to  deal  with  "  '  the  all-embracing  view'  of  life,"  it  is 
again  like  the  modern  short-story  rather  than  the  condensed 
novel. 

The  narrative,  moreover,  cannot  be  said  to  be  complicated 
by  episodes  or  by  contributory  sub-plots,  for  it  contains  no  epi- 
sodes or  contributory  sub-plots  at  all.  Neither  has  it  any  "other 
incidents. "  (The  conversations  of  the  lovers,  through  a  chink 
in  the  party-wall  connecting  their  homes,  are  not  technically 
incidents,  since  they  do  not  involve  action  in  the  technical  sense.) 
As  has  elsewhere  been  noted,  the  story  exhibits  a  single  pre- 
dominating incident,  or,  one  might  have  said  more  simply,  only 
a  single  incident  of  any  description  whatever.  Once  more,  then, 
the  narrative  partakes  of  the  character  of  the  short-story  rather 
than  of  the  condensed  novel. 

"In  its  singleness  of  effect," — which  is  present  in  our  selec- 
tion— "in  its  more  minute  scope," — which  is  likewise  present- 
"and  in  its  simplicity  of  structure," — which  similarly  character- 
izes the  selection — "the  short-story  proves  itself  to  be  something 
quite  different  from  a  mere  condensed  novel."  Metamorphoses, 
IV,  55-166,  is  not  a  condensed  novel. 


ALEXANDER  KADISON,  A.  M.  213 

Negative  Canon  No.  2:  "The  short-story  is  not  an  episode 
.  .  .  While  the  episode  fits  in  with  the  rest  of  the  novel, 
into  which  it  was  parenthetically  inserted  to  illustrate  some 
phase  of  character  or  of  conduct,  the  short-story  is  not  meant 
to  dovetail  into  a  novel  which  is  to  appear  later."  (This 
is  addressed  to  the  writer,  or  would-be  writer,  of  short- 
stories;  hence  the  preceptive  phrasing  of  the  second  sentence, 
with  which  we  are,  however,  not  concerned.)  (Esenwein,  p. 
23-) 

It  is  of  course  not  essential,  as  I  understand  it,  that  the  main 
subject  should  be  a  novel;  it  may  be  an  example  of  any  literary 
form  at  all.  It  might  seem,  then,  at  first  blush,  according  to  the 
literal  wording  of  the  canon  just  cited,  that  our  selection  was  an 
episode,  since  it  "fits  in  with  the  rest  of"  the  Metamorphoses 
Yet  it  is  not  actually  an  episode,  inasmuch  as  it  was  not  "paren- 
thetically inserted  to  illustrate  some  phase  of  character  or  of 
conduct,"  and  does  not  dovetail  into  the  Metamorphoses  The 
point  I  wish  to  make  is  that  the  story  of  Pyramis  and  Thisbe  is 
related  solely  for  its  own  sake;  it  is  not  related  in  order  to  illus- 
trate the  character  or  the  conduct  of  the  daughter  of  Minyas  (a 
mythical  personage  who  is  supposed  to  be  telling  the  story)  or  of 
anyone  else.  The  Metamorphoses,  in  fact,  is  not  an  example  of 
any  single  literary  form,  but,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  literary  med- 
ley. For  the  work  is  nothing  more,  nor  was  it  intended  to  be 
anything  more,  than  a  collection  of  narratives  from  Greek  and 
Roman  mythology  (often  with  intervening  "quasi-justifications, " 
so  to  speak,  for  recounting  particular  narratives),  one  of  which 
is  the  story  of  Pyramis  and  Thisbe. 

Thus,  even  if  on  superficial  consideration  it  may  appear  to 
bear  a  certain  resemblance  to  the  episode,  the  selection  in  hand 
is  not  actually  an  example  of  that  literary  form,  but  an  inde- 
pendent narrative. 

Negative  Canon  No.   3:  The    short-story   is  not   a  scenario, 
not  a  synopsis,  and  not  a  biography.     (Esenwein,  pp.  24-25.) 

Obviously  it  would  be  superfluous  to  demonstrate  in  detailed 
fashion  that  the  selection  under  consideration  is  not  a  scenario 
and  not  a  synopsis.  Xor  is  it  a  biography,  for  it  does  not  treat, 
as  a  biography  normally  should,  of  the  life  of  a  single  character, 
but  treats  of  the  lives  of  more  characters  than  one.  But  even  if 


2i4  OVID  AS  A  SHORT-STORY  WRITER 

a  certain  latitude  of  definition  were  to  be  here  allowed,  our  selec- 
tion would  still  fall  far  short  of  being  a  biography,  since  it  does 
not  depict  human  life  from  birth  to  death,  nor  even  for  a  con- 
siderable period,  but  deals  only  with  the  very  last  (single)  incident 
in  the  lives  of  its  hero  and  its  heroine. 

Negative  Canon  No.  4:  The  short-story  "is  not  a  mere  sketch." 
Sketches  "are  not  short-stories,  for  in  them  nothing  happens; 
they  have  neither  essential  beginning  nor  necessary  ending; 
they  leave  no  single  completed  impression;  they  lack  the 
effect  of  totality  on  which  Poe  so  constantly  insisted." 
(Esenwein,  pp.  25-26.) 

Is  the  story  of  Pyramis  and  Thisbe  perhaps  "a  mere  sketch?" 
Evidently  not.  For,  whereas  in  a  sketch  "nothing  happens,"  in 
the  story  under  consideration  something  decidedly  does  happen; 
and  whereas  sketches  "have  neither  essential  beginning  nor 
necessary  ending,"  the  story  of  Pyramis  and  Thisbe  has  both. 
And,  far  from  leaving  no  single  completed  impression  and  lacking 
the  effect  of  totality,  the  narrative  we  are  examining,  as  we  have 
previously  ascertained,  is  characterized  by  the  presence  of  a  plot 
the  details  of  which  "are  so  compressed,  and  the  whole  treatment 
so  organized,  as  to  produce  a  single  impression." 

Negative  Canon  No.  5:  "The  short-story  is  not  a  tale."  Dr. 
Esenwein  finds  it  useful  to  differentiate  between  the  term 
"tale"  and  the  term  "short-story,"  even  though  they  are 
frequently  used  interchangeably.  He  defines  a  tale  as  "a 
simple  narrative,  usually  short,  having  little  or  no  plot,  de- 
veloping no  essential  change  in  the  relation  of  the  characters, 
and  depending  for  its  interest  upon  incidents  rather  than 
upon  plot  and  the  revelation  of  character."  The  tale,  unlike 
the  short-story,  does  not  "march  in  all  its  parts  directly  and 
swiftly  toward  a  single  impression.  The  tale  admits  of 
digressions,  moral  or  amusing  reflections,  and  loosely  con- 
nected episodes  ad  libitum."  Actually,  it  may  be  noted  in 
passing,  the  magazines  of  today  print  not  only  short-stories, 
but  often  tales  as  well.  (Esenwein,  pp.  26-28.) 

Finally,  let  us  ask  ourselves  whether  the  story  of  Pyramis 
and  Thisbe  may  not  be  a  tale,  in  the  technical  and  specialized 
sense  in  which  that  word  is  employed  by  Dr.  Esenwein.  \Ve 


ALEXANDER  KADISON,  A.  M.  215 

have  already  seen  that  the  story  contains  a  plot — a  plot  distinctly 
marked  by  the  "one  essential  feature  of  a  true  plot. "  The  narra- 
tive, moreover,  does  develop  an  essential  change  in  the  relation 
of  the  characters — therein  consists  the  excellence  of  the  plot— 
and  the  most  essential  change  possible :  the  two  chief  characters, 
separated  in  life,  are  united  in  death.  The  incidents,  too,  are  in 
themselves  of  subordinate  interest.  It  is  only  for  the  sake  of  the 
plot  that  they  exist.  And  as  for  revelation  of  character,  it  is 
precisely  that  which  has  ever  lent,  and  doubtless  ever  will  con- 
tinue to  lend,  a  peculiar,  indefinable  charm  to  the  story  of  the  ill- 
fated  lovers.  Thus  far,  then,  the  selection  under  consideration 
bears  not  the  remotest  resemblance  to  the  literary  form  known 
as  the  tale. 

To  continue:  the  selection  presents  but  a  single  digression, 
and  that  a  relevant  one.  A  chink  in  the  party-wall  connecting 
the  homes  of  Pyramis  and  Thisbe,  through  which  the  lovers  are 
enabled  to  converse  prior  to  their  tragic  meeting,  is  discovered 
by  them,  though  it  has  previously  remained  unnoticed  for  genera- 
tions. It  is  in  this  connection  that  we  have  the  parenthetical 
remark  (line  68) : 

"  Quid  non  se ntit  amor?     . 

—"What  doth  not  love  perceive?"  A  single  digression  of  this 
nature,  instead  of  constituting  a  defect  from  the  standpoint  of 
modern  short-story  technique,  is  in  fact  a  merit,  owing  to  its 
distinctly  emotional  value.  And  it  is  indeed  questionable  whether 
a  "digression"  consisting  of  only  four  words  is  properly  speaking 
a  digression  at  all.  In  any  case,  one  fails  to  detect  the  presence 
of  digressions  ad  libitum,  and  it  is  the  words  "ad  libitum"  that 
evidently  constitute  the  essential  part  of  our  authority's  reference 
to  digressions  in  the  tale. 

As  for  moral  or  amusing  reflections,  there  are  none  present 
in  the  entire  selection,  unless  perhaps  the  four  words  to  which 
reference  has  just  been  made  be  included  within  that  category: 
a  reflection  they  certainly  are,  and  possibly,  by  a  far-fetched 
implication,  a  moral  reflection.  But  whatever  view  be  taken  of 
the  matter,  there  are  not  present  moral  or  amusing  reflections 
ad  libitum. 

Then,  too,  the  story  of  Pyramis  and  Thisbe  cannot  be  said 
to  contain  loosely  connected  episodes  ad  libitum;  it  contains,  in 


216  OVID  AS  A  SHORT-STORY  WRITER 

fact,  no  episodes  of  any  description  whatever.     So  far,  therefore, 
it  has  absolutely  no  affinity  with  the  tale. 

It  has  been  pointed  out  in  another  connection  that  the  whole 
of  the  narrative  is  embraced  within  the  narrow  limits  of  one 
hundred  and  twelve  lines  of  verse.  A  careful  reading  impresses 
one,  even  though  a  tendency  to  excessive  praise  be  lacking,  with 
the  undeniable  fact  that  Ovid  made  every  one  of  those  lines — 
one  feels  tempted  to  say  every  word  in  them — pregnant  with 
meaning,  and  purposeful.  In  consequence  of  this  fact,  and  also 
in  view  of  the  absence  of  copious  digressions,  reflections,  and 
episodes,  the  narrative  marches  "in  all  its  parts  directly  and 
swiftly  toward  a  single  impression."  It  is  thus  once  more  dia- 
metrically opposed  in  structure  to  the  tale. 

V 

The  story  of  Pyramis  and  Thisbe  has  now  been  tested,  dis- 
passionately and  without  bias,  by  all  the  canons,  both  positive 
and  negative,  which  I  decided  at  the  outset  to  apply,  and  proves 
to  be  indeed  a  perfect  short-story  from  the  standpoint  of  modern 
technique;  and  this  despite  the  fact  that  the  short-story  of  today 
is  a  natural  outgrowth  of  previous  literary  forms  which  are  quite 
generally  regarded  as  themselves  of  very  recent  origin.  But,  it 
might  be  urged,  modern  short-stories  are  written  in  prose  form, 
not  in  verse  form.  Should  not  this  fact  alone  have  disqualified 
all  selections  occurring  in  the  Metamorphoses,  a  priori,  from  being 
included  within  the  category  of  short-stories  ?  To  such  a  query 
my  answer  would  be  that  the  most  that  can  reasonably  be  asserted 
of  modern  short-stories  in  this  connection  (since,  here  as  else- 
where, one  may  not  assume  a  universal  negative)  is  that  they  are 
usually  written  in  prose  form,  but  that  in  any  event  I  am  able  to 
think  of  no  good  and  sufficient  reason  why  a  verse  composition 
produced  in  the  year  1917  might  not  be  in  every  sense  a  short- 
story,  quite  as  much  as  a  composition  cast  in  a  prose  mold.  The 
question  at  issue,  it  appears  to  me,  involves  ultimately  nothing 
more  than  a  matter  of  definition,  and  the  burden  of  proof  should 
rest  in  the  first  instance  upon  him  who  contended  that  the  term 
"short-story"  ought  to  be  so  defined  as  to  exclude  all  verse 
composition  from  its  scope.  Now,  toward  the  beginning  of  this 
article,  for  reasons  duly  specified,  I  accepted  as  final,  by  hypothe- 
sis, the  dicta  of  an  acknowledged  authority  on  the  short-story, 


ALEXANDER  KADISON,  A.  M.  217 

and  into  those  dicta,  it  will  be  recalled,  the  matter  of  prose  or 
verse  form  did  not  enter. 

I  venture  to  assert  that  the  query,  were  it  to  arise,  as  it 
conceivably  might,  would  be  one  of  purely  academic  interest. 
My  own  belief  is,  as  already  intimated,  that  the  matter  of  prose 
form  as  opposed  to  verse  form  cannot  on  any  reasonable  showing 
be  regarded  as  a  valid  criterion,  for  I  feel  that  it  would  be  every 
bit  as  preposterous  to  take  the  view  that  a  short-story  cannot 
exist  in  the  realm  of  verse  because  modern  short-stories  are 
usually  written  in  prose  form,  as  it  would  be  to  maintain  that 
short-stories  cannot  be  written  in  Arabic  for  the  reason,  forsooth, 
that  the  overwhelming  majority  of  modern  short-stories  are 
written  either  in  English,  in  French,  or  in  German. 


And  so  it  seems  that  Ovid,  could  he  but  come  to  life  once 
more  today,  and  write  his  charming  stories  in  a  modern  tongue, 
with  modern  settings,  might  stand  some  chance  with  the  editor 
of  a  contemporary  magazine  devoted  solely  to  the  publication  of 
short-stories.  Perhaps — though  this,  it  must  be  confessed,  is 
not  at  all  likely,  and  is,  moreover,  distinctly  beside  the  point— 
our  editor  might  benevolently  condescend  to  make  an  exception 
in  the  poet's  case,  and  accept  even  some  of  his  tales! 


ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON'S 

FRENCH  READING  AS  SHOWN 

IN  HIS  CORRESPONDENCE 

BY  RUTH  LANSING 

AMONG  the  numerous   discussions  of  matters   per- 
taining to  Stevenson,  there  is  one  phase  that  has 
been  passed  over  more  lightly  than  it  deserves. 
That  is  the  influence  of  French  literature  upon  his 
style  and  ideas — more  perhaps  upon  the  details 
and  finishing  touches  than  upon  the  central  themes. 
Let  it  be  understood  at  once  that  this  study  does  not  claim 
to  trace  any  definite  French  influence  in  the  novels  and  short 
stories.     Nothing  is  so  fascinating,  nothing  so  dangerous,  as  an 
attempt  to  define  the  influence  of  one  author  upon  another,  of  one 
movement  upon  its  fellow.     An  analogy  is  easily  found,  then 
another,  and  the  result  of  continuing  this  is  like  wading  on  a 
beach  that  treacherously  drops  off  sheer  a  few  feet  from  the 
water-mark.     By  Stevenson's  own  words  in  a  letter  written  from 
Vailima  to  Barrie,  are  we  warned  away  from  such  an  attempt: 

I  have  been  accustomed  to  hear  refined  and  intelligent  critics — 
those  who  know  so  much  better  than  we  do  ourselves — trace  down  my 
literary  descent  from  all  sorts  of  people,  including  Addison,  of  whom  I 
could  never  read  a  word.1 

The  aim  here  is  to  select  from  R.  L.  S.'s  published  corre- 
spondence references  to  various  French  books  included  in  his 
reading  and  to  cite  the  opinions  he  expressed.  It  is  practical 
enough  to  draw  inferences  as  to  his  mental  reactions,  for  no  one 
can  suppose  that  his  impressionable,  sympathetic  mind  was  not 
as  able  in  reaction  as  in  action,  or  that  his  books  would  have 
been  the  same  without  his  reading  any  more  than  that  our  own 
lives  would  be  the  same  were  we  not  more  or  less  unconsciously 
guided  by  others'  trend  of  thought. 

i For  Letters,  I  quote  from  the  "New  Edition"  in  4  volumes,  edited  by  Sidney 
Colvin,  published  by  Scribner,  New  York,  1911.     Vol.  IV,  p.  266. 

218 


RUTH  LANSING  219 

Stevenson's  knowledge  of  French  began  early,  as  we  find 
from  a  letter  sent  from  his  school  in  1863,  when  he  was  thirteen, 
asking  to  join  his  parents  on  the  Riviera. ~  Of  this  schoolboy 
plea,  partly  in  French,  Mr.  Sidney  Colvin  says:  "This  young 
French  scholar  has  yet,  it  will  be  discerned,  a  good  way  to  travel; 
in  later  days  he  acquired  a  complete  reading  and  speaking,  with 
a  less  complete  writing,  mastery  of  the  language,  and  was  as 
much  at  home  with  French  ways  of  thought  and  life  as  with 
English."3 

In  this  same  year  on  some  "illustrated  dessert  plate  in  a 
hotel  at  Nice"  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  D'Artagnan.  All 
who  have  read  A  Gossip  on  a  Novel  of  Dumas,  or  who  have  seen 
Stevenson's  contribution  to  Books  Which  Have  Influenced  Me, 
know  that  Dumas  came  first  among  French  writers  with  him. 

Perhaps  my  dearest  and  best  friend  outside  of  Shakespeare  is 
D'Artagnan — the  elderly  D'Artagnan  of  the  Vicomte  de  Bragelonne. 
I  know  not  a  more  human  soul,  nor  in  his  way,  a  finer;  I  shall  be  very 
sorry  for  the  man  who  is  so  much  a  pedant  in  morals  that  he  canr.ot 
learn  from  the  Captain  of  Musketeers.4 

\Yhen  I  suffer  in  mind,  stories  are  my  refuge;  I  take  them  like 
opium;  and  I  consider  one  who  writes  them  as  a  sort  of  doctor  of  the 
mind.  And  frankly  .  .  .  it  is  not  Shakespeare  we  take  to  when 
we  are  in  a  hot  corner;  nor  certainly  George  Eliot,  no,  nor  even  Balzac. 
It  is  Charles  Reade,  or  old  Dumas,  or  the  Arabian  Nights,  or  the  best 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott;  it  is  stories  we  want,  not  the  high  poetic  function, 
which  represents  the  world;  we  are  then  like  the  Asiatic  with  his  im- 
provisatore  or  the  middle-ages  with  his  trouvere.0 

Dumas  .  .  .  the  brave  old  godly  pagan,  I  adore  his  big  foot- 
prints on  the  earth.'1 

I  love  Dumas  and  I  love  Shakespeare;  you  will  not  mistake  me  when 
I  say  that  the  Richard  of  the  one  reminds  me  of  the  Porthos  of  the 
other;  and  if  by  any  sacrifice  of  my  own  literary  baggage  I  could  clear 
the  fr'icomle  de  Bragelonne  of  Porthos,  Jekyll  might  eo,  or  The  Master. 
and  The  Black  y/rrocr,you  may  be  sure,  and  I  should  think  my  life  not 
lost  for  mankind  if  half  a  dozen  more  of  my  volumes  must  be  thrown  in." 

In  this  same  article  on  Books  I Thick  liars  Influenced  Mc\ 
great  stress  is  laid  on  Montaigne: 

A  book  which  has  been  very  influential  upon  me  fell  early  into  my 
hands,  and  so  may  stand  first,  though  I  think  its  influence  was  only 

2 Letters,  Vol.  I,  p.  5. 

"^Letters,  Vol.  I,  pp.  5-6. 

^Books  Which  Hare  Influenced  Me  in  British  Weekly  Extras,  1887.  Vol.  I,  p.  • 

^Letters,  Vol.  I.  p.  322. 

(>L:-:tfrs,  Vol.  If,  p.  1 66. 


220  ROBERT  L.  STEVENSON'S  FRENCH  READING 

sensible  later  on,  and  perhaps  still  keeps  growing,  for  it  is  a  book  not 
easily  outlived:  the  Essais  of  Montaigne.  That  temperate  and  genial 
picture  of  life  is  a  great  gift  to  place  in  the  hands  of  persons  of  today; 
they  will  find  in  these  smiling  pages  a  magazine  of  heroism  and  wisdom, 
all  of  an  antique  strain  they  will  have  their  "linen  decencies"  and  ex- 
cited orthodoxies  fluttered,  and  will  (if  they  have  any  gift  of  reading) 
perceive  that  these  have  not  been  fluttered  without  some  excuse  and 
ground  of  reason;  and  (again  if  they  have  any  gift  of  reading)  they  will 
end  by  seeing  that  this  old  gentleman  was  in  a  dozen  ways  a  fine  fellow, 
and  held  in  a  dozen  ways  a  nobler  view  of  life  than  they  or  their  con- 
temporaries.7 

This  passage  and  these  words  in  A  Gossip  on  a  Novel  of  Dumas: 
"I  have  never  read  the  whole  of  Montaigne,  but  I  do  not  like  to 
be  long  without  reading  some  of  him,  and  my  delight  in  what  I 
do  read,  never  lessens,"  taken  together  make  it  a  surprise  to  us 
to  find  in  all  his  letters  only  one  direct  mention  of  Montaigne. 
This  is  in  the  form  of  a  message  to  his  parents  from  Bournemouth 
in  1884,  bidding  them  when  they  come  to  bring  among  other 
books:  "My  Montaigne,  or,  at  least,  the  last  two  volumes."8 

After  these  two  writers,  we  find  in  his  letters  many  stars  of  a 
lesser  magnitude  in  his  mind.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that 
George  Sand  is  mentioned  only  in  the  early  letters. 

I  have  found  a  new  friend  to  whom  I  grow  daily  more  devoted — 
George  Sand.  I  go  on  from  one  novel  to  another  and  think  the  last  I 
have  read  the  most  friendly  and  sympathetic  in  tone,  until  I  have  read 
another.  It  is  a  life  in  dreamland.9 

I  feel  like  a  person  in  a  novel  of  George  Sand's;  I  feel  I  desire  to 
go  out  of  the  house  and  begin  life  anew  in  the  cool  blue  night;  never  to 
come  back  here;  never,  never.10 

Mademoiselle  Mer quern,  Consuelo,  Comtesse  de  Rudolstadt  are 
the  only  novels  of  hers  which  he  cites  in  these  letters,  all  dated 
between  1873  and  1875. 

Flaubert  aroused  Stevenson's  youthful  enthusiasm  to  such 
an  extent  that  it  is  disappointing  to  find  later  only  one  mention 
of  him  after  the  volume  of  his  Letters  which  the  exile  expected  in 
1890.  The  Frenchman's  theories  on  writing  and  re-writing  fell 
in  exactly  with  Stevenson's,  as  we  find  them  stated  in  several 
places,  and  he  wrote  to  Edmund  Gosse:  .  .  do  we  not 

know  in  Flaubert's  dread  confession  that  'prose  is  never  done'?"1 

7 Books  Which  Have  Influenced  Me  in  British  Weekly  Extras,  1887,  Vol.  I,  p.  6. 
^Letters,  Vol.  II,  p.  257. 
(^Letters,  Vol.  I,  p.  103. 
loLetters,  Vol.  1,  p.  230. 
1 1 Letters,  Vol.  Ill,  p.  202. 


RUTH  LANSING  221 

The  earlier  mention  of  Flaubert  is  as  follows: 

I  read  over  again  for  this  purpose  (to  relax  myself)  Flaubert's 
Temptation  de  Saint  Antoine;  it  struck  me  a  good  deal  at  first,  but  this 
second  time  it  has  fetched  me  immensely.  I  am  but  just  done  with  it, 
so  you  will  know  the  large  proportion  of  salt  to  take  with  my  statement 
that  it's  the  finest  thing  I  ever  read!  Of  course,  it  isn't  that,  it's  full 
of  longueurs  and  is  not  quite  "redd  up,"  as  we  say  in  Scotland,  not 
quite  articulated;  but  there  are  splendid  things  in  it.12 

At  the  very  antipodes  of  this  art  of  writing,  Balzac  comes 
under  severe  criticism  for  violating  that  rule  so  dear  to  Stevenson 
—brevity. 

Were  you  to  re-read  some  Balzac  as  I  have  been  doing,  it  would 
greatly  help  to  clear  your  eyes.  He  was  a  man  who  never  found  his 
method.  An  inarticulate  Shakespeare,  smothered  under  forcible-feeble 
detail.  It  is  astounding  to  the  riper  mind  how  bad  he  is,  how  feeble, 
how  untrue,  how  tedious  and,  of  course,  when  he  surrendered  to  his 
temperament,  how  good  and  powerful.  And  yet  never  plain  or  clear, 
lie  could  not  consent  to  be  dull,  and  thus  became  so.  He  would  leave 
nothing  undeveloped,  and  thus  drowned  oat  of  sight  of  land  amid  the 
multitude  of  crying  and  incongrous  details.  There  is  but  one  art — to 
omit.18 

Barbey  d'Aurevilley  had  a  great  fascination  for  Stevenson. 
In  this  "Byronic  dandy"  of  French  literature  was  much  in  com- 
mon with  the  Scotch  novelist,  for  both  were  lovers  of  Romance, 
and  all  their  lives  followed  her  shining  feet.  There  is  an  echo  of 
this  longing  for  a  tale  wherein  there  will  "some  frosty  night  a 
horseman  on  a  tragic  errand,  rattle  with  his  whip  upon  the  green 
shutters  of  the  inn  at  Burford"  in14  the  comment  on  Lc  Rideau 
Cramoisi: 

I  don't  know  if  you  are  a  Barbey  d'Aurevillcv-an,  1  am.  I  have  a 
great  delight  in  his  Xorman  stories.  Do  you  know  the  Chevalier  des 
Touches  and  L'Ensorcelee?  They  are  admirable,  they  reck  of  the  soil 
and  the  past.  But  I  \vas  thinking  just  now  of  /,f-  Ridrau  Cramnisi,  and 
its  adorable  setting  of  the  stopped  coach,  the  dark  street,  the  home 
going  in  the  inn  yard,  and  the  red  blind  illuminated.  Without  doubt 
there  was  an  identity  of  sensation;  one  of  those  conjunctions 
that  had  filled  Barbey  full  to  the  brim,  and  permanently  bent  hi.- 


l2Lrtters,Vo\.  1,  pp.  181-182. 
lT,LetteTs,\'o\.  11,  p.  173. 
I4R.  L.  Stevenson:  A  (tos.fip  on  Romance. 
I  ^Letters,  Vol.  IV,  p.  205. 


222  ROBERT  L.  STEVENSON'S  FRENCH  READING 

Do  you  ever  read  .  .  .  the  incredible  Barbey  d'Aurevilley? 
A  psychological  Poe  —  to  be  for  a  moment  Henley.  I  own  with  pleasure 
that  I  prefer  him  with  all  his  folly,  rot,  sentiment,  and  mixed  metaphors, 
to  the  whole  modern  school  of  France.  It  makes  me  laugh  when  it's 
nonsense;  and  when  he  gets  an  effect  (though  it's  still  nonsense  and 
mere  Poe'ry,  not  Poesy)  it  wakens  me.  Ce  Qui  ne  meurt  pas  nearly  killed 
me  with  laughing,  and  left  me  —  well,  it  left  me  very  nearly  admiring  the 
old  ass.  At  least,  it's  the  kind  of  thing  one  feels  one  couldn't  do.  The 
dreadful  moonlight,  when  they  all  three  sit  silent  in  the  room  —  by 
George,  sir,  it's  imagined  —  and  the  brief  scene  between  the  husband 
and  wife  is  all  there.  Quant  au  fond,  the  whole  thing,  of  course,  is  a 
fever  dream,  and  worthy  of  eternal  laughter.  Had  the  young  man 
broken  stones,  and  the  two  women  been  hard-working,  honest  prosti- 
tutes, there  had  been  an  end  of  the  whole  immoral  and  baseless  business: 
you  could  at  least  have  respected  them  in  that  case18. 

To  be  the  object  of  an  almost  unqualified  disapproval  was 
the  lot  of  a  novelist  whose  plots  and  epic  moods  cause  the  reader 
to  have  anticipated  a  more  favorable  reaction  on  the  part  of  the 
critic. 

For  Zola  I  have  no  toleration,  though  the  curious,  eminently  bour- 
geois, and  eminently  French  creature  has  power  of  a  kind.     But  I  would 

he  were  deleted.  I  would  not  give  a  chapter  of  old  Dumas  .  .  .  for 
the  whole  boiling  of  the  Zolas.  Romance  with  the  small-pox  —  as  the 
great  one:  diseased  anyway,  and  black  hearted  and  fundamentally  at 
enmity  with  joy.17 

I  am  now  well  on  with  the  third  part  of  the  Debacle.  The  two  first 
I  liked  much;  the  second  completely  knocking  me;  so  far  as  it  has  gone, 
this  third  part  appears  the  ramblings  of  a  dull  man  who  has  forgotten 
what  he  has  to  say—  he  reminds  me  of  an  M.  P.  But  Sedan  was  really 
great,  and  I  will  pick  no  holes.  The  batteries  under  fire,  the  red-cross 
folk,  the  country  charge  —  perhaps  above  all,  Major  Bouroche  and  the 
operations,  all  beyond  discussion;  and  every  word  about  the  emperor 
splendid.18 

Ugliness  is  the  prose  of  horror.  It  is  when  you  are  not  able  to 
write  Macbeth  that  you  write  Therese 


There  is  but  one  reference  to  Daudet,  written  in  1882:  "The 
best  of  the  present  French  novelists  seems  to  me  incomparably 
Daudet.  Les  Rois  en  Exit  comes  very  near  being  a  masterpiece.  ": 

Yet  it  seems  well  to  insert  here  a  few  lines,  taken  from  Steven- 
sonia,  on  Stevenson's  library  at  Vailima:  "I  came  next  upon  a 

\6Letters,  Vol.  II,  p.  201. 
17  Letters,  Vol.  If,  pp.  84-85. 
iK  Letter?,  Vol.  [IT,  p.  125. 
igLelters,  Vol.  II,  p.  169. 
ZoLf  tiers,  Vol.  If,  p.  84. 


RUTH  LANSING  223 

fine  collection  of  French  works,  beginning  with  a  complete  edition 
of  Balzac,  which  had  evidently  been  read  with  care.  Much 
French  fiction  was  here — Daudet's  Tartarin,  Fromont  Jeune  et 
Risler  Aine,  Les  Rois  en  Exil,  Guy  de  Maupassant's,  Prosper 
Merimee,  and  a  complete  Victor  Hugo  besides  a  swarm  of  the 
more  ephemeral  novels.  "21 

From  this  it  seems  probable  that  Daudet,  although  not 
mentioned  in  the  correspondence  any  more  than  Montaigne, 
was,  like  him,  a  factor  in  Stevenson's  literary  life. 

Through  Henry  James  some  of  Anatole  France's  novels 
reached  Vailima,  but  the  first  ones  did  not  receive  a  kindly  wel- 
come. 

(1893)  I  received  from  you  a  book  by  a  man  by  the  name  of  Ana- 
tole France.     Why  should  I  disguise  it?     I  have  no  use  for  Anatole. 
He  writes  very  prettily,  and  then  afterwards?     Baron  Marbot  was  a 
different  pair  of  shoes.     So  likewise  is  the  Baron  de  Vitrolles,  whom  I 
am  now  perusing  with  delight.     His  escape  in  1814  is  one  of  the  best 
pages  I  remember  anywhere  to  have  read.2"' 

(1894)  By  the  by,  you  sent  me  long  ago  a  work  by  France,  which 
I  confess  I  did  not  taste.     Since  then  I  have  made  the  acquaintance  of 
the  Abbe  Coignard,  and  have  become  a  faithful  adorer.23 

The  essay  on  Victor  Hugo's  romances  appeared  in  the  Corn- 
hill  Magazine  for  i874-24  On  the  whole,  Hugo  seems  to  have 
made  much  less  impression  on  Stevenson  than  one  would  suppose. 
Les  Travailleurs  dc  la  Mer,  Quatrc-Vingt-Treiie,  Bug- jar  gal  and 
the  rest  of  them  may  have  failed  that  keen  mind  in  the  tendency 
to  overbalance  the  excitement  with  antitheses  and  divagations. 
Where  the  romantic  heroes  of  Hugo's  dramas  would  be  found 
lacking,  surely  the  adventures  in  the  novels  should  have  appealed 
to  the  man  who  later  lamented  that  he  himself  had  written 
Treasure  Island  because  he  had  so  few  exciting  books  to  read  and 
desired  a  new  story  of  adventure. 

Of  his  visit  to  Alolokai,  the  lepers'  settlement,  Stevenson 
wrote:  "A  horror  of  moral  beauty  broods  over  the  place:  that's 
like  bad  Victor  Hugo,  but  it  is  the  only  way  1  can  express  the 
sense  that  lived  with  me  all  these  days."' 

2iStevensonia—.-(  f'isitto  Str.-fnsons  Pacific  I  de  (M.  F.  M.insticld,  \.  Y '..  IQDD>  p.  68. 
22Lftters,  Vol.  IV,  p.  214.. 
2 ; Letters,  Vol.  IV.  p.  321. 
z^Lftters,  Vol.  I,  p.  149  and  p.  1,4. 
25  Letters,  Vol.  Ill,  p.  15:. 


224  ROBERT  L.  STEVENSON'S  FRENCH  READING 

He  wrote  of  his  having  said  in  The  Master  of  Ballantrae  that 
Mrs.  Henry  thrust  the  sword  up  to  the  hilt  in  the  frozen  ground: 
"One  of  my  inconceivable  blunders,  an  exaggeration  to  stagger 
Hugo,"26 

Stevenson's  opinion  of  Bourget,  including  the  personal  point 
of  view,  can  best  be  given  by  quotations  from  his  letters  to  Henry 
James. 

(1891)  I  am  delighted  beyond  expression  by  Bourget's  book:  he 
has  phrases  which  affect  me  almost  like  Montaigne:  I  had  read  ere  this 
a  masterly  essay  of  his  on  Pascal;  this  book  does  it;  I  write  for  all  his 
essays  by  this  mail.27 

The  charm  of  Bourget  hag-rides  me.  I  wonder  if  this  exquisite 
fellow,  all  made  of  fiddle-strings  and  scent  and  intelligence,  could  bear 
any  of  my  bald  prose  ...  I  have  read  no  new  book  for  years  that 
gave  me  the  same  literary  thrill  as  his  Sensations  cTItalie  .  .  .  Here 
I  broke  off  and  wrote  Bourget  a  dedication:  (for  Across  the  Plains]  no 
use  resisting;  it's  a  love-affair.  O,  he's  exquisite,  I  bless  you  for  the 
gift  of  him.28 

(1893)  I  thought  Bourget  was  a  friend  of  yours?  And  I  thought 
the  French  were  a  polite  race?  He  has  taken  my  dedication  with  a 
stately  silence  that  has  surprised  me  into  apoplexy.29 

There  are  single  mentions  of  Chateaubriand,  Renan,  Gautier: 

Chateaubriand  is  more  antipathetic  to  me  than  anyone  else  in  the 
world.30 

******* 

(1893)  I  sit  up  here  and  write  and  read  Kenan's  Origines  which 
is  certainly  devilish  interesting;  I  read  his  Nero  yesterday,  it  is  good, 
O,  very  good!  But  he  is  quite  a  Alichelet;  the  general  views,  and  such 
a  piece  of  character  painting,  excellent;  but  his  method,  sheer  lunacy. 
You  can  see  him  take  up  the  block  which  he  had  just  rejected  and  make 
of  it  the  corner-stone:  a  maddening  way  to  deal  with  authorities:  and 
the  result  so  little  like  history  that  one  almost  blames  oneself  for  wast- 
ing time.  But  the  time  is  not  wasted:  the  conspectus  is  always  good, 
and  the  blur  that  remains  on  the  mind  is  probably  just  enough.  I 
have  been  enchanted  with  the  unveiling  of  Revelations  .  .  .  And 
how  picturesque  that  return  of  the  false  Nero!  The  Apostle  John  is 
rather  discredited.  And  to  think  how  one  had  read  the  thing  so  often, 
and  never  understood  the  attacks  upon  St.  Paul.  Take  it  for  all  in  all, 
UAntechrist  is  worth  reading.  The  Histoire  d'Jsrael  did  not  surprise  me 

26Lettfrs,  Vol.  Ill,  p.  278. 
ijLettcrs,  Vol.  Ill,  p.  576. 
2%L(tters,  Vol.  Ill,  pp.  377-378. 
igLetters,  Vol.  IV,  p.  216. 
~-,cLet1fr.<,  Vol.  I,  p.  93. 


RUTH  LANSING  225 

much;  I  had  read  those  Hebrew  sources  with  more  intelligence  than  the 
New  Testament,  and  was  quite  prepared  to  admire  Ahab  and  Jezebel, 
etc.31 

******* 

(1873)  I  nave  had  a  day  of  open  air,  only  a  little  modified  by 
Le  Capitaine  Fracasse  before  the  dining-room  fire.  I  must  write  no 
more,  for  I  am  sleepy  after  two  nights,  and  to  quote  my  book,  sinon 
blanches,  du  mains  grtiw.88 

Especially  during  his  stay  in  San  Francisco  do  the  letters 
mention  the  reading  of  modern  French  Fiction,  and  a  goodly 
proportion  of  a  rather  trashy  variety.  But  this  period  of  reading 
was  probably  merely  the  rest  of  a  weary  body  and  an  anxious 
spirit. 

Indeed  I  am  jack-tired  and  must  go  to  bed  to  a  French  novel  to 
compose  myself  to  slumber.33 

.     .     Studying  the  exploits  of  one  Rocambole  by  the  late  Vicomte 
Ponson  du  Terrail.34 

I  have  read  M.  Ang-uste  and  the  Crime  Inconnu,  (by  Joseph  Mery) 
being  now  abonne  to  a  library,  and  found  them  very  readable,  highly 
ingenious,  and  so  French  that  I  could  not  keep  my  gravity.35 

There  is  little  mention  of  French  verse.  A  volume  of  Heredia 
elicited  this  to  Henry  James:  "Yes.  Les  Trophees  is,  on  the 
whole,  a  book.  It  is  excellent,  but  is  it  a  life's  work?" 

Baudelaire  had  interested  Stevenson  during  the  same  youth- 
ful phase  in  which  he  revelled  in  George  Sand's  works:  "I  am 
writing  Petits  Poemes  en  Prose.  Their  principal  resemblance  to 
Baudelaire's  is  that  they  are  rather  longer  and  not  quite  so  good. "' 

And  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Sitwell  he  says  about  the  Elgin  mar- 
bles: "And  if  all  goes  to  the  worst,  shall  I  not  be  able  to  lay  my 
head  on  the  great  knees  of  the  middle  Fate — O  these  great  knees— 
I  know  all  that  Baudelaire  meant  now  with  his  geante — to  lay  my 
head  on  her  great  knees  and  go  to  sleep."' 

In  1875  he  wrote  to  Sidney  Colvin:  "I  offered  Appleton  a 
series  of  papers  on  the  modern  French  school — the  Parnassians, 
I  think  they  call  themselves — Banville,  Coppec,  Soulary,  and 
Sully-Prudhomme.  But  he  has  not  deigned  to  answer  my  letter/''' 


3  1  Letters 

Vol. 

IV,  pp.  19^-193 

32  Letters 

Vol. 

I,  pp.  89-90. 

3  3  Letters 

Vol. 

I,  p-  317- 

34/~"  'tiers 

Vol. 

I,  p.  310. 

35  Letters 

Vol. 

I,  p.  314- 

i>6  Letters 

Vol 

IV,  p.  231. 

37  Letters 

Vol. 

I.  P.  -37- 

38  Letters 

Vol 

1,  p.  193- 

^Letters 

Vol. 

I,  p.  203. 

226    ROBERT  L.  STEVENSON'S  FRENCH  READING 

Two  of  Stevenson's  own  rondeaux,  imitations  in  English  of 
this  early  form  of  French  verse,  are  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Sitwell  in 
1875;  one  the  exquisite  variation  on  a  theme  of  Banville's  Nous 
n'  irons  plus  au  bois. 

We'll  walk  the  woods  no  more, 

But  stay  beside  the  fire, 

To  weep  for  old  desire 

And  things  that  are  no  more.40 

As  we  learn  in  various  letters,  drama  never  attracted  Steven- 
son, and  so  it  does  not  seem  strange  that  among  the  French 
authors  there  are  only  three  dramatists  mentioned,  Moliere, 
Musset  and  Dumas  fils. 

(1884)  A  thousand  thanks  for  the  Moliere.  I  have  already  read, 
in  this  noble  presentment,  La  Comtesse  d'Escarbagnas,  Le  Malade  Imagin- 
aire,  and  a  part  of  Les  Femmes  Savantes.41 

My  view  of  life  is  essentially  the  comic  and  the  romantically  comic 
.  .  .  I  make  an  effort  of  my  mind  to  be  quite  one  with  Molifcre, 
except  upon  the  stage,  where  his  inimitable  jeux  de  scene  beggar  belief; 
but  you  will  observe  they  are  stage-plays  —  things  ad  hoc;  not  great 
Olympian  debauches  of  the  heart  and  fancy;  hence  more  perfect,  and 
not  so  great.  Then  I  come,  after  great  wanderings  to  Carmosine  and 
to  Fantasia.*2 

(1878)  What  an  inconceivable  cheese  is  Alfred  de  Musset!  His 
comedies  are,  to  my  view,  the  best  work  of  France  this  century:  a 
large  order  —  They  are  real,  clear,  living  work.43 

In  1875  Stevenson  spent  some  weeks  of  the  summer  in  the 
forest  of  Fontainebleau  with  Sir  Walter  Simpson.  At  that  time 
he  had  been  studying  fifteenth  century  French  poets,  indeed  he 
had  been  at  this  for  some  time,  writing  to  his  mother  a  year  before 
from  Menton:  "The  second  volume  of  Clement  Marot  has  come. 
\Vhere  and  O  where  is  the  first?"44 

The  result  of  this  work  appeared  in  his  essays  on  Charles 
d'Orleans  and  Francois  Villon  and  in  some  well-known  short 
stories.  Besides  the  work  that  was  finished,  there  was  more 
that  was  projected,  but,  like  so  many  of  his  ideas,  left  unexecuted. 

(1877)     Then    I    shall    do    another   fifteenth    century    paper    this 


j,  Vol.  I,  p.  229. 
4lLetters,  Vol.  II,  p.  249. 
^Letters,  Vol.  II,  p.  2  1  8. 
^Letters,  Vol.  1,  p.  258. 
^Letters,  Vol.  I,  p.  131. 


RUTH  LANSING  227 

autumn—  La  Sale  and  Petit  Jehan  de  Saintre,  which  is  a  kind  of  fifteenth 
century  Sandford  and  Merton,  ending  in  horrid  immoral  cynicism,  as 
if  the  author  had  got  tired  of  being  didactic,  and  just  had  a  good  wallow 
in  the  mire  to  wind  up  with  and  indemnify  himself  for  so  much  re- 
straint.45 

History  always  interested  Stevenson  from  his  early  days, 
especially  on  the  human  side.  In  1873  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Sitwell: 

I  wish  you  would  read  Michelet's  Louis  Ouatorze  et  la  Revocation  de 
r Edit  de  Nantes.  I  read  it  out  in  the  garden,  and  the  autumnal  trees 
and  weather,  and  my  own  autumnal  humour,  and  the  pitiable  prolonged 
tragedies  of  Madame  and  of  Moliere,  as  they  look,  darkling  and  sombre, 
out  of  their  niches  in  the  great  gingerbread  facade  of  the  Grand  Age,  go 
wonderfully  hand  in  hand.46 

In  1881  he  was  hunting  for  a  history  of  Jean  Cavalier, 
the  Protestant  leader  in  the  Cevennes.  The  book  planned  was 
never  undertaken,  but  his  reading  on  the  subject  is  attested  by 
his  references  to  "the  loud  and  empty  Napoleon  Peyrat"  and  to 
Vacquerie.47  A  volume  on  the  Duke  of  Wellington  met  with  the 
same  fate,  although  in  1885  he  was  writing  to  Air.  Colvin  for 
material:  "A  life  of  the  Marquis  Marmont  (the  Marechal), 
MarmontePs  Memoirs  .  .  .  Thiers,  idle  Thiers  also.  "' 

Taine's  work  roused  his  enthusiasm  during  his  stay  at  Sara- 
nac: 

1   say,  Taine's  Origines  de  la  France  Contemporaine  is  no  end;  it 

would  turn  the  dead  body  of  Charles  Fox  into  a  living  Tory.49 

*  *  *  *  *  *  "  * 

(1893)  Taine  is  to  me  perhaps  the  chief  of  these  losses:  I  did 
luxuriate  in  his  Origines;  it  was  something  beyond  literature,  not  quite 
so  good,  if  you  please,  but  so  much  more  systematic,  and  the  pages 
that  had  to  be  "written"  always  so  adequate.  Robespierre,  Napoleon. 
were  excellent  good.50 

Through  the  Letters  from  1868-1893  are  to  be  found  French 
phrases  and  sentences,  quotations  and  slang.  There  are  French 
letters  to  various  correspondents,  particularly  to  Ins  San  Francisco 
friend,  M.  Jules  Simoneau. 

^Letters,  Vol.  I,  p.  252. 
^Letters,  Vol.  I,  p.  82. 
^Letters,  Vol.  II,  p.  35. 
^Letters,  Vol  II,  p.  35. 
^Letters,  Vol.  Ill,  p.  32. 
scl.fiters,  Vol.  IV,  p.  211. 


228  ROBERT  L.  STEVENSON'S  FRENCH  READING 

The  proposal  of  M.  Marcel  Schwob  in  1890  to  translate  The 
Black  Arrow  into  French  gave  Stevenson  great  pleasure.  He  wrote 
to  his  translator: 

Comprehend  how  I  have  lived  much  of  my  time  in  France,  and 
loved  your  country  and  many  of  its  people,  and  all  the  time  was  learning 
that  which  your  country  has  to  teach — breathing  in  rather  that  atmos- 
phere of  art  which  can  only  there  be  breathed;  and  all  the  time  knew 
and  raged  to  know — that  I  might  write  with  the  pen  of  angels  and 
heroes,  and  no  Frenchman  be  the  least  the  wiser.51 

These  meagre  extracts  show  to  some  degree  the  effect  of  his 
French  reading  upon  Stevenson.  One  result  was  surely  that 
mentioned  in  a  letter  from  Vailima  about  The  Wrecker. 

However,  I  believe  The  Wrecker  is  a  good  yarn  of  its  poor  sort,  and 
it  is  certainly  well  nourished  with  facts;  no  realist  can  touch  me  there; 
for  by  this  time  I  do  begin  to  know  something  of  life  in  the  nineteenth 
century,which  no  novelist  either  in  France  or  in  England  seems  to 
know  much  of.52 

By  comparing  the  dates  of  his  reading  with  the  time  of  com- 
position of  his  works,  perhaps  some  analogy  might  be  drawn,  but 
enough  for  a  general  estimate  of  the  relative  importance  of  French 
influence  in  his  writings  can  be  inferred  from  this  brief  collection 
of  references. 

51  Letters,  Vol.  Ill,  pp.  207-208. 
^Letters,  Vol.  Ill,  p.  364. 


IBSEN  IN  HIS  MATURITY 

BY  PAUL  H.  GRUMMANN 
IV 

"JOHN  GABRIEL  BORKMAN"  AND  "WHEN  WE  DEAD 

AWAKEN" 

AN  overwhelming  public  sentiment  on  any  subject 
always  made  Ibsen  suspicious.  At  a  time  when 
every  one  was  interested  in  the  problem  of  vast 
fortunes  and  every  captain  of  industry  was  under 
suspicion,  the  author  of  The  Pillars  of  Society 
raised  a  timely  note  of  warning,  pointing  out  that 
the  constructive  business  man  may  be  admirable. 

In  The  Master  Builder,  he  had  portrayed  a  professional  man 
who  becomes  false  to  himself,  one  who  collapses  within  himself, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  world  crowns  him  with  outward 
success.  In  John  Gabriel  Borkman,  he  presents  a  man  who,  in 
spite  of  shipwreck  and  the  loss  of  all  personal  happiness,  lives  a 
consistent  and  rather  worthy  existence. 

As  a  boy,  John  Gabriel  works  in  the  mines  with  his  father. 
He  is  a  miner  with  every  fibre  of  his  being.  His  whole  youthful 
imagination  is  so  centered  upon  his  work  that  he  can  hear  the 
metals  sing  to  him,  sing  to  be  freed  from  their  prison.  He  soon 
rises  to  a  better  post  in  the  mines,  and  conceives  the  idea  of  pro- 
moting the  mines  to  the  fullest  extent.  He  would  establish 
industries,  develop  steamship  lines  and  railroads;  all  with  the 
intention  of  bringing  the  mines  to  their  proper  position. 

In  order  to  carry  out  such  a  policy,  he  must  control  the 
money  market,  and  therefore  he  becomes  the  director  of  the  local 
bank.  As  a  bank-director,  he  is  in  favor  of  a  large,  daring  policy. 
He  can  carry  out  this  policy  only  if  he  secures  the  help  of  Hinkle, 
who,  unfortunately,  shares  his  love  for  Ella  Rentheim.  However 
much  he  may  love  Ella,  John  Gabriel  subordinates  her  to  his 
business  projects,  and  purchases  Hinkle's  help  by  renouncing  her. 
In  order  to  prove  that  this  renunciation  is  complete,  he  marries 
Ella's  sister.  But  P'lla  refuses  to  transfer  her  affections  to  Hinkle, 

229 


230  IBSEN  IN  HIS  MATURITY 

who  now  thinks  that  Borkman  is  secretly  interfering.  To  avenge 
himself,  Hinkle  betrays  Borkman  in  his  most  daring  venture, 
with  the  result  that  he  is  sent  to  prison. 

The  details  of  Borkman's  difficulty  should  receive  close 
attention.  He  has  broken  the  law,  but  under  extenuating  cir- 
cumstances. If  he  had  had  another  week,  his  venture  would  have 
succeeded.  It  is  quite  clear  that  the  jury  that  condemns  him, 
almost  apologizes  for  its  action.  The  law  had  been  violated, 
therefore  condemnation  is  inevitable.  But  the  jury  fixes  the 
verdict  at  five  years,  clearly  a  very  short  sentence  for  a  crime 
that  involved  such  stupendous  losses. 

When  Borkman  returns  from  prison,  he  lives  in  the  same 
house  with  his  wife  for  eight  years  without  associating  with  her. 
She  is  filled  with  hatred  for  him,  because  he  has  disgraced  her. 
He,  in  turn,  blames  her  for  adding  to  their  ruin  by  her  extrav- 
agance. Their  son,  Erhart,  is  reared  by  Ella  Rentheim,  who 
has  not  lost  her  fortune,  because  Borkman  refused  to  jeopardize 
her  funds.  But  Mrs.  Borkman  refuses  to  allow  Erhart  to  remain 
with  Ella.  She  insists  that  he  come  home  and  devote  his  life 
to  the  task  of  re-establishing  the  family  fortune  and  restoring  her 
lost  position  to  her. 

For  eight  long  years,  Borkman  waits  for  vindication.  He 
has  the  idea  that  he  will  be  recalled  to  the  directorship  of  the  bank. 
This  is  not  an  altogether  foolish  hallucination,  for  he  sees  that 
none  of  his  great  plans  has  been  carried  out  by  his  incompetent 
successors.  Confident  that  he  could  do  it,  he  feels  that  his  day 
will  come.  He  is  so  certain  of  his  ground,  that  he  rehearses  his 
reception  of  the  committee  that  is  to  tender  him  his  old  post.  He 
decides  not  to  appear  at  all  anxious  to  make  the  committee  plead 
with  him. 

He  does  not  forget  that  imprisoned  bank-directors  are  not 
recalled  to  their  posts.  He  regards  his  own  case  as  exceptional, 
a  habit  of  great  men  since  the  beginning  of  time.  Alexander  thus 
marched  through  the  desert  against  the  advice  of  his  generals. 
Caesar  repeatedly  shocked  the  common  sense  of  his  advisers. 
Napoleon  marched  to  Russia  in  the  winter.  Gabriel,  the  Na- 
poleon of  finance,  can  take  great  risks,  and,  like  Napoleon,  he 
has  the  rare  ability  to  come  back  from  Elba. 

It  is  quite  clear  that  John  Gabriel  is  a  monomaniac,  but 
Ibsen  has  been  careful  not  to  make  him  appear  in  ridiculous  light 
To  guard  against  misinterpretation  on  this  score,  he  has  con- 
trasted him  with  Foldal,  the  petty  monomaniac.  Foldal  has  lost 


PAUL  H.  GRUMMANN  231 

his  fortune  through  Borkman's  crime,  yet  he  visits  him  regularly. 
He  often  reads  Borkman  passages  from  a  miserable  drama  that 
he  has  written,  and  Borkman  puts  up  with  the  torture  because 
Foldal  admires  him,  and  listens  to  the  discussion  of  his  projects. 
Here  again,  Ibsen  gives  Borkman  a  weakness  commonly  attri- 
buted to  great  men.  It  is  said  that  Napoleon  employed  a  man 
to  remind  him  constantly  of  his  greatness. 

Ella  Rentheim  never  has  been  on  very  friendly  terms  with 
Mrs.  Borkman.  She  now  comes  to  her  sister  and  tells  her  that 
she  has  learned  from  her  physician  that  her  days  are  numbered, 
and  that  she,  therefore,  has  decided  to  adopt  Erhart,  the  son. 
She  will  bequeath  her  entire  estate  to  him,  if  he  will  assume  her 
name.  This  looks  like  personal  selfishness  on  the  part  of  Ella, 
but  a  careful  scanning  of  the  situation  will  clear  up  her  motive. 
She  sees  that  Mrs.  Borkman  is  sacrificing  the  boy  to  a  disgraced 
name,  so  she  decides  to  force  him  to  take  her  name,  so  he  may  not 
be  burdened  with  the  past.  Ella,  of  course,  has  no  special  dislike 
for  the  name  of  Borkman.  It  has  been  the  tragedy  of  her  life 
that  she  has  not  been  able  to  bear  the  name  which  she  desires  to 
take  from  Erhart  for  his  own  good. 

While  the  two  sisters  are  contending  for  the  possession  of 
the  boy,  the  thing  to  be  expected  happens,  he  resolves  to  go  his 
own  way.  The  gloom  of  his  home  naturally  has  been  repulsive 
to  him.  That  natural  craving  for  light  and  joy,  which  Ibsen 
depicts  so  well  in  Ghosts,  allows  him  to  become  infatuated  with  a 
Airs.  Wilton.  Mrs.  Wilton  is  a  divorcee,  who  has  a  reputation 
that  is  rather  shocking  to  the  correct  society  of  the  place.  Neithe  r 
Ella's  well-considered  plans  for  Erhart's  welfare,  nor  Mrs.  Bork- 
man's puerile  selfishness,  can  keep  the  son  from  following  the  lure 
of  this  woman. 

In  her  attempt  to  carry  out  her  plan  in  regard  to  Erhart, 
Ella  goes  to  John  Gabriel  for  assistance,  for  he  always  has  had 
the  plan  of  re-entering  the  bank  with  his  son  as  his  lieutenant. 
This  interview  leads  to  a  discussion  of  the  past.  She  tells  him 
that  she  would  have  remained  loyal  to  him  in  all  of  his  trials. 
He  confesses  that  he  has  cared  only  for  her,  and  he  now  discloses 
to  her  the  secret  of  his  bargain  with  Hinkle.  Incensed  to  the 
utmost,  Ella  cries  out,  "You  are  worse  than  a  murderer, — you 
have  killed  the  love-life  in  me."  All  of  the  superb  passion  of  Ella 
fails  to  make  the  slightest  impression  on  Borkman,  which  intensi- 
fies her  perturbation  still  more. 

Borkman  now  realizes  that  he  has  been  living  on  vain  illu- 


232  IBSEN  IN  HIS  MATURITY 

sions.  The  departure  of  his  son  convinces  him  that  he  must 
undertake  something  upon  his  own  initiative.  He  dismisses 
Foldal  unceremoniously  and  resolves  upon  action.  In  spite  of 
the  snow  storm  that  is  raging,  he  sets  out  immediately.  Mrs. 
Borkman  is  content  to  let  him  go,  but  Ella,  in  spite  of  the  recent 
revelations,  follows  the  almost  helpless  old  man.  On  an  eminence 
overlooking  the  fjord,  the  two  have  their  last  conversation.  In 
a  kind  of  hypnotic  state,  he  reveals  the  dream  to  which  his  life 
has  been  dedicated.  He  has  a  vision  of  the  prosperity  which 
was  to  come  from  his  activity;  busy  steamships,  railroads  and 
factories.  To  this  dream  he  remains  true  up  to  the  moment  when 
heart  failure  claims  him. 

Ella's  emotions  undergo  a  remarkable  change.  She  has  felt 
that  she  had  been  sold;  that  Borkman  wantonly  had  bargained 
away  her  love-life,  as  she  says:  "had  committed  the  crime  against 
the  holy  spirit."  Now  she  realizes  that  she  had  been  sacrificed 
to  a  great  constructive  dream,  which,  had  it  been  realized,  would 
have  brought  economic  stability  to  many.  Her  attitude  also 
changes  toward  her  sister,  that  petty,  selfish  sister,  who  was  such 
a  complete  contrast  to  her  in  all  things.  Now  she  can  shake 
hands  with  her  over  the  dead  body  of  Borkman,  for  she  realizes 
that  they  really  never  have  been  rivals.  The  haunting  riddle, 
why  Borkman  could  have  preferred  this  woman  to  her,  is  cleared 
up  in  Ella's  mind.  She  realizes  that  her  tragedy  has  been  a  part 
of  a  well-conceived  plan,  a  plan  of  such  magnitude  that  she  can 
subordinate  herself  to  it  without  bitterness. 

The  analysis  of  John  Gabriel's  character  involves  some 
difficulties.  Unfortunately,  the  easiest  interpretation  has  gener- 
ally been  followed.  He  has  been  regarded  as  a  man  untrue  to 
himself,  because  he  renounces  Ella,  and  it  is  asserted,  that  he  is 
punished  with  a  life  of  misery  because  he  has  done  this.  It  is 
well  to  remember  that  Ibsen  believed  that  it  is  not  man's  chief 
purpose  to  be  happy,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  that  word.  He 
constantly  preached  that  the  life  of  each  individual  should  serve 
humanity,  even  if  that  involves  personal  discomfort. 

Measured  by  such  a  standard,  Borkman  cannot  deserve  very 
much  censure.  He  conceives  a  plan  that  would  bring  better  con- 
ditions to  very  many.  He  is  not  entirely  unselfish,  but  his  sel- 
fishness is  part  of  a  scheme  that  benefits  humanity.  This  becomes 
clear  when  he  justifies  his  extravagance  on  the  ground  that  it  is 
in  the  interests  of  his  great  projects,  contrasted  with  the  petty 
vanity  that  prompts  Mrs.  Borkman's  display.  Since  Borkman 


PAUL  H.  GRUMMANN  233 

acts  in  the  service  of  a  great  ideal,  he  must  be  judged  accordingly. 
This  does  not  mean  that  a  captain  of  industry  may  engage  in  all 
kinds  of  crooked  practices,  and  still  claim  the  approval  of  man- 
kind. It  does  mean  that  this  type  presents  a  new  problem; 
that  what  seems  repulsive  in  him,  may,  after  all,  be  a  virtue  that 
serves  the  ultimate  good.  The  ability  to  dream  and  construct  a 
trans-continental  railroad  should  command  respect,  even  when 
it  calls  for  qualities  to  which  man,  in  the  past,  has  not  given 
unqualified  consent. 

If  Borkman  were  presented  as  a  great  poet  who  realizes  that 
he  cannot  write  his  great  epic  without  renouncing  Ella,  few  would 
object  to  him.  If  he  were  a  priest  or  minister  who  feels  that  he 
cannot  adequately  preach  the  gospel  without  making  such  a 
sacrifice,  he  would  not  lack  approval.  If  he  were  a  general  or  a 
diplomat  who  subordinates  his  love  to  his  country,  his  sacrifice 
would  rouse  a  very  spontaneous  enthusiasm.  But  the  industrial 
and  economic  ideal  is  generally  rated  lower,  and  Ibsen  has  the 
temerity  to  suggest  that  this  inference  is  incorrect. 

If  Borkman  is  to  be  taken  seriously  however,  it  must  be 
evident  that  he  has  more  than  an  empty  vision,  an  intangible 
dream;  it  must  be  clear  that  he  has  the  ability  to  translate  the 
dream  into  reality.  The  evidence  between  the  lines  is  ample. 
He  begins  as  a  poor  miner's  son.  Through  thrift  and  industry, 
he  rises  step  by  step  until  he  not  only  controls  the  mines,  but  the 
bank  as  well.  His  failure  is  due  to  betrayal;  for  his  plan  would 
have  materialized,  if  he  had  had  a  few  days  more  at  the  time  of 
the  crisis.  He  foresees  the  possibility  of  Hinkle's  treachery,  and 
to  meet  this  possibility,  he  sacrifices  his  love,  the  highest  price 
that  he  can  pay.  This  is  good  business,  whatever  else  it  may 
be  judged  from  a  different  angle. 

Having  conceived  his  ideal,  he  expands  it,  not  only  making 
it  greater,  but  also  better  for  humanity.  To  this  expanding  ideal 
he  remains  true,  no  matter  what  the  cost  may  be.  For  it,  he 
lives  the  life  of  display,  for  it,  he  renounces  the  woman  of  his 
choice,  for  it,  he  goes  to  prison,  for  it,  he  watches  and  waits.  It 
is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  he  tells  Ella  of  his  renunciation 
without  the  slightest  tinge  of  regret.  If  he  had  the  same  con- 
tingency confront  him,  he  would  do  the  same  thing  over,  taking 
greater  care  and  making  more  sacrifices,  if  necessary.  Borkman 
ends  in  defeat,  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  Thomas  Stock- 
man was  not  very  prosperous  at  the  end  of  the  drama.  He  lives 
his  life  out  with  his  self-respect  unshaken,  not  like  the  master- 


234  IBSEN  IN  HIS  MATURITY 

builder,  prosperous  but  morally  bankrupt.  Having  been  true 
to  himself,  he  cannot  even  be  untrue  to  Ella.  Her  realization 
of  this  truth  forms  the  great  climax  of  the  play. 

A  perusal  of  his  plays  will  show  how  fond  Ibsen  was  of  this 
theme.  It  already  appeared  in  The  Fikings.  In  Brand  he  por- 
trayed a  man  who,  although  mistaken  in  his  theories,  is  true  to 
himself.  Peer  Gynt,  by  way  of  caricature,  did  not  even  acquire 
a  self  to  which  he  could  be  true.  Hardly  a  play  came  from  his 
pen,  after  that,  that  did  not  touch  this  theme  somehow,  but,  in 
his  last  years,  it  fairly  became  a  ruling  passion  with  him.  The 
last  plays  present  it  with  the  deepened  insight  of  maturity,  the 
clarified  inspiration  of  real  wisdom. 

Some  one  has  said  that  Ibsen's  plays  are  ephemeral,  because 
they  present  the  social  problems  of  his  own  times,  and  that  they 
will  cease  to  be  vital  when  these  times  are  past.  But  Ibsen  pre- 
sents great  vital  problems  as  they  appear  in  his  times,  which  is 
quite  another  matter.  The  same  thing  is  true  of  Goethe  and 
Shakespeare.  Hamlet's,  "This  above  all,  to  thine  own  self  be 
true,"  reappears  in  Borkman,  but  the  problem  does  not  worry  a 
prince;  it  worries  a  business  man  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

Dissatisfied  with  the  many  misinterpretations  of  his  John 
Gabriel  Borkman,  Ibsen  once  more  reverted  to  the  problem  of  the 
Master  Builder  and  portrayed  a  man  who  became  untrue  to  him- 
self. 

Rubek,  in  When  We  Dead  Awaken,  is  a  young  sculptor  of 
rare  promise  and  exalted  ideals.  In  spite  of  his  poverty,  he  lives 
up  to  the  highest  demands  of  his  art,  to  the  highest  vision  that 
he  has.  He  undertakes  a  statue  which  is  to  represent  the  resur- 
rection, the  figure  of  an  unsullied  young  woman,  rising  up  from 
the  dross  of  the  world. 

He  might  have  presented  many  figures  instead  of  a  single  one, 
but  that  would  have  meant  the  violation  of  the  sculptor's  highest 
ideal.  A  group  would  have  been  more  popular  and  would  have 
sold  more  readily,  but  Rubek  refuses  to  make  any  concessions  to 
his  own  comfort.  The  young  woman,  Irene,  who  serves  him  as 
a  model,  makes  this  sacrifice  for  him  at  the  expense  of  her  family 
ties.  If  he  is  to  maintain  the  conception  of  unsullied  purity,  he 
must,  in  the  nature  of  the  case,  refrain  from  making  advances  to 
her.  In  spite  of  his  strong  inclination,  he  does  this  so  successfully 
that  he  comes  to  refer  to  their  common  experience  as  an  interest- 
ing episode. 


PAUL  H.  GRUMMANN  235 

As  Ibsen  had  already  shown  in  The  Master  Builder,  the  pro- 
fessional man  has  the  duty  to  observe  professional  ethics,  and  not 
confuse  his  personal  emotions  with  his  professional  interests.  It 
is  therefore  proper  for  Rubek  to  regard  Irene  as  a  model  and 
nothing  more.  Irene,  the  woman,  however  does  not  have  this 
professional  attitude.  To  her  this  posing  is  an  act  of  personal 
devotion  and  she  naturally  expects  the  lover's  response.  There- 
fore, when  Rubek  refers  to  her  great  sacrifice  as  an  episode,  she 
is  wounded  in  her  very  soul  and  disappears. 

After  Irene's  disappearance,  Rubek's  conception  of  the  work 
gradually  changes.  The  main  figure  is  placed  more  and  more  into 
the  background.  New  figures  are  added  and  he  even  introduces 
himself  in  the  pose  of  a  repentant  sinner.  The  changes  are  sig- 
nificant. He  has  substituted  many  figures  for  one,  and  has  intro- 
duced himself.  Before,  he  had  kept  his  personal  feelings  detached: 
now  he  parades  them  not  unlike  the  poet  who  publishes  his  love- 
letters.  Moreover,  the  group  takes  on  a  maudlin,  sentimental 
character  which  he  had  scorned  before. 

But  the  group  now  attains  great  approval.  It  is  purchased 
by  a  museum,  and  the  sculptor  is  honored  by  the  title  of  pro- 
fessor. This  experience  makes  him  resolve  to  capitalize  his  shame 
and  to  prostitute  his  ideals.  Instead  of  scorning  the  comfort?  o! 
lile,  he  makes  his  art  the  means  of  securing  them.  Instead  ot 
pondering  upon  noble  conceptions  not  popularly  understood,  he 
now  makes  portrait  busts  of  commonplace  magnates.  As  he 
models  these,  he  sees  in  each  countenance  the  features  of  some 
animal,  Ibsen's  way  of  saying  that  he  has  become  entirely  cynical 
about  his  art. 

He  also  decides  to  marry.  Not  some  woman  who  might  give 
him  such  inspiration  as  Irene  had  yielded  him.  but  one  that  will 
give  him  the  largest  sensual  returns.  The  prime  requisite  is  that 
she  be  an  excellent  animal.  For  very  good  reasons,  he  d<xvs  not 
choose  a  wealthy  woman.  He  does  not  need  money,  for  he  i> 
being  paid  royally  for  his  disreputable  art.  A  wealthy  girl  would 
maintain  a  certain  independence,  a  poor  one  is  more  subject  to  hi> 
pleasure,  is  under  obligations  for  what  he  lavish.es  upon  her. 

For  a  while,  this  arrangement  is  highly  satisfactory.  Rubek 
in  his  enthusiasm,  tells  his  stunning  young  wife  that  he  will  take 
her  up  on  a  high  place  and  show  her  all  the  glories  of  the  world. 
His  spectacular  words  mean  that  he  has  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  plodding  and  preparation  are  quite  useless,  and  that  the 
glories  of  the  world  may  be  conferred  upon  Maja  by  Rubek  in 


236  IBSEN  IN  HIS  MATURITY 

rather  an  easy  manner.  Rubek  not  only  has  ceased  to  work 
seriously  at  his  art,  he  loses  faith  in  the  necessity  of  serious  work. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  Maja  should  fail  to  understand  his 
words.  She  takes  them  literally  and  expects  a  trip  to  the  moun- 
tains. In  time  this  becomes  a  mania  with  her  and  she  forces  him 
to  make  the  trip.  Meanwhile,  however,  a  certain  void  has  come 
into  his  life.  He  would  like  to  conceive  ideal  creations  again, 
but  he  is  unable  to  give  them  form  and  content.  In  the  hope  of 
finding  some  diversion  from  his  awful  ennui,  he  departs  for  the 
mountains  with  her. 

On  the  way,  he  has  an  interesting  mental  experience.  The 
train  stops  in  a  village  in  the  night,  and  he  is  appalled  by  the 
silence.  Two  men  with  lanterns  appear  and  talk  in  muffled  tones. 
No  one  seems  to  leave  or  board  the  train.  The  whole  experience 
seems  symbolical  of  his  own  aimlessness  to  him.  All  that  happens 
is  really  in  harmony  with  definite  and  rational  arrangements.  A 
train  stops  where  it  is  scheduled  to  stop.  If  the  men  have  any 
consideration  for  the  passengers  on  the  sleepers,  they  will  speak 
in  muffled  tones.  To  the  disordered  Rubek,  however,  all  this 
becomes  symbolical  of  his  own  state  of  consciousness. 

They  stop  at  a  small  resort,  the  former  home  of  Maja.  She 
desires  to  display  the  catch  that  she  has  made  to  the  envious 
villagers.  Here  they  see  a  woman  who  is  in  charge  of  a  nurse. 
This  proves  to  be  Irene.  Her  haggard,  haunted  face  immediately 
suggests  aphasia.  After  her  experience  with  Rubek,  this  woman 
threw  herself  away  completely.  She  had  posed  for  Rubek  only 
after  a  supreme  effort  and  because  she  loved  him.  Later  she 
divested  herself  of  every  trace  of  chastity  so  completely,  that  she 
posed  as  a  nude  in  cheap  museums.  She  married  twice,  one 
husband  committed  suicide,  and  she  murdered  the  other.  The 
plausibility  of  Irene's  character  has  been  questioned.  It  is 
asserted  that  the  radical  lapse  is  improbable,  but  this  conclusion 
docs  not  take  European  conditions  of  her  time  into  consideration. 
Woman's  only  career  was  marriage,  and  failing  in  this,  she  fre- 
quently lost  her  moorings  entirely. 

When  Rubek  meets  Irene  again,  he  sees  her  as  she  had  been, 
not  as  she  is.  Her  grotesque  account  of  her  experiences  does  not 
disturb  him  at  all.  He  feels  that  she  has  the  key  that  will  unlock 
the  recesses  within  him,  that  she  can  again  afford  him  the  rare 
pleasure  of  real  creative  activity.  It  is  clear  that  Rubek's  ideal 
is  returning  to  him,  but  this  ideal  is  not  the  unspoiled  dream  of  his 
youth  as  presented  to  Solnesz  by  Hilda,  but  an  ideal  that  has 


PAUL  H.  GRUMMANN  237 

degenerated.  This  conception  of  the  degenerated  ideal  may  have 
been  suggested  to  Ibsen  by  the  figure  of  Rautendelein  in  Haupt- 
mann's  Sunken  Bell. 

When  Rubek  confronts  the  shattered  ideal  of  his  youth,  he 
throws  its  pristine  halo  about  it.  For  this  reason  he  sees  many 
possibilities  in  Irene  that  she  does  not  possess  and  really  has  not 
possessed  in  the  past.  Instead  of  breaking  with  Maja  and 
resolutely  following  the  ideal  again,  he  proposes  a  compromise. 
He  would  like  to  have  the  pleasure  of  artistic  creation,  but  he 
is  not  willing  to  forego  what  Maja  means  to  him.  He  therefore 
proposes  that  Irene  come  and  live  with  him  and  Maja.  This  is 
very  much  like  the  error  of  Solnesz  who  builds  dwellings  with 
steeples. 

Maja  would  be  willing  enough  to  part  with  Rubek,  for  he  is 
not  the  man  who  can  yield  her  the  pleasures  that  she  is  seeking. 
His  moroseness  bores  her  unspeakably,  and  she  is  constantly  look- 
ing for  an  opportunity  to  live  her  own  life.  This  opportunity  is 
offered  by  Ulfheim,  a  brutal  bear-hunter,  a  beast  man  of  the  low- 
est order.  She  accepts  his  invitation  to  climb  the  mountain  with 
him.  Although  he  treats  her  most  ungently  on  this  occasion,  she 
still  prefers  him  to  the  morose  brooder  Rubek,  whom  she  now 
forsakes.  Having  lost  Maja,  Rubek  now  follows  Irene  up  the 
mountain,  but  both  are  overtaken  by  an  avalanche  and  are 
killed. 

The  pivotal  theme  of  the  drama  seems  to  be  the  conflict 
between  pleasure  and  the  claims  of  the  ideal.  Rubek  ignores 
pleasure  in  his  youth  and  experiences  the  joy  of  creative  work 
in  the  pursuit  of  a  worthy  ideal.  He  renounces  this  ideal  to  seek 
pleasure,  but  finds  that  his  pleasure  does  not  compare  with  the 
joy  that  he  has  experienced  in  real  creative  effort.  Having  ac- 
quired a  taste  for  the  shallower  pleasures,  he  has  neither  the 
courage  nor  the  strength,  to  go  back  to  his  higher  levels.  His 
distraction  makes  him  incapable  of  retaining  his  pleasure,  for 
he  loses  Maja.  His  pursuit  of  pleasure  has  made  him  incapable 
of  rightly  estimating  and  following  an  ideal,  ior  the  avalanche 
overtakes  him  in  the  attempt. 

A  number  of  writers  have  suggested  that  this,  the  poet's 
last  drama,  gives  evidence  of  his  impending  collapse.  It  is  very 
difficult  to  find  a  real  justification  for  such  a  position.  It  is 
probable  that  an  unwillingness  to  seek  the  poet's  intentions  has 
led  to  such  rash  conclusions.  The  play  has  been  compared  with 
The  Master  Builder  and  subordinated  to  it.  It  is  quite  possible, 


238  IBSEN  IN  HIS  MATURITY 

however,  to  find  points  of  excellence  in  the  later  play  that  quite 
overshadow  corresponding  points  in  the  former.  The  conception 
of  the  ideal  has  changed.  Hilda  brings  back  exactly  the  ideal  of 
youth,  Irene  brings  back  the  shattered  ideal  which  is  then  phan- 
tastically  adorned  by  Rubek.  Solnesz  never  gave  evidence  of  a 
capacity  to  do  great  things;  Rubek  has  this  capacity,  and  throws 
it  away.  Tested  for  plausibility  the  figure  of  Irene  surpasses 
that  of  Hilda.  In  addition  to  this,  it  must  be  remembered  that 
the  suggestiveness  of  the  later  play  is  unmistakable. 

That  the  play  employs  symbolism,  no  one  can  deny,  but  the 
extremes  to  which  the  symbol-hunters  have  gone  is  a  trifle  funny. 
With  Spenserian  instincts,  they  have  found  a  symbolic  meaning 
for  the  nurse,  whose  function  plainly  is  to  remind  the  reader  at 
every  step  that  Irene  is  a  patient.  But  the  train  must  symbolize 
something,  and  the  two  men,  not  to  forget  the  lanterns  which 
they  are  carrying.  If  all  that  has  been  read  into  this  last  drama 
were  true,  it  would  give  unmistakable  evidence  of  aphasia  in  the 
poet.  If  it  is  mystic,  it  is  mystic  because  too  cheaply  understood! 
All  of  the  figures  are  clearly  conceived.  The  plot  is  a  model  of 
simplicity,  and  the  individual  passages  are  worked  out  with  a  skill 
and  care,  astounding  in  a  man  at  the  very  end  of  his  career. 

The  most  inspiring  characteristic  of  Ibsen's  activity  is  his 
constant  growth  from  drama  to  drama.  "As  for  myself, "  he  says, 
"I  am  conscious  of  constant  change."  He  remains  at  work  on 
many  of  his  old  problems,  but  he  never  allows  his  attitude  on  a 
problem  to  become  fixed.  Each  drama  is  a  document  of  his 
temporary  attitude  at  its  best.  In  addition  to  this  gradual 
growth,  he  experienced  a  number  of  violent  revolutions.  One 
occurred  when  he  renounced  poetry  for  prose,  the  Sartor  Res  art-its 
period  when  he  resolutely  parted  company  with  all  that  he  con- 
sidered sham.  Another  revolution  came  when  he  entered  the 
period  of  Hedda  Gabler  and  The  Ai aster- Builder.  His  language 
then  took  on  a  deeper  poetical  content  and  his  mind  ran  to  sym- 
bolism. Most  important  of  all,  his  problems  became  more 
-erious.  They  derived  their  inspiration  more  and  more  from  his 
beloved  Bible.  Their  real  import  was,  "What  shall  it  profit  a 
man,  if  he  gain  the  whole  world  and  lose  his  soul  ?" 

After  the  publication  of  When  We  Dead  Awaken,  this  man  of 
eighty  wrote:  "If  I  appear  in  the  literary  arena  again,  it  will  be 
in  a  new  armor."     Here,  there  is  evidence  that  another  revolu 
tion  was  taking  shape.     It  is  not  altogether  rash  to  suppose  tha 
he  was  preparing  to  write  verse  again.     His  later  dramas  show 


PAUL  H.  GRUMMANN  239 

consistent  growth  in  poetical  content,  and  a  gradual  but  unmis- 
takable intensification  of  diction  and  imagery.  The  next  logical 
step  would  have  been  metrical  language,  which,  after  all,  is  the 
natural  vehicle  for  emotions  as  strong  as  those  that  were  expressed 
by  Ibsen  in  his  last  plays. 

The  bitterness  and  note  of  revolt  in  Ibsen's  plays  gave  cur- 
rency to  the  notion  that  he  was  a  pessimist.  This  he  denied  in 
the  words:  "I  have  been  called  a  pessimist  and  I  am,  in  so  far  as 
I  do  not  believe  in  the  everlastingness  of  human  ideals,  but  I  am 
also  an  optimist,  because  I  believe  in  man's  ability  to  procreate 
new  and  better  ideals  for  himself."  Bitterness  and  revolt  are 
not  definite  proofs  of  pessimism.  A  careful  reading  of  Ibsen 
impresses  one  with  this  fact.  The  young  Ibsen  fairly  bubbles 
with  humor.  Pure,  unalloyed  joy  has  rarely  been  expressed  more 
beautifully  than  in  certain  passages  in  Brand.  Peer  Gynt  teems 
with  rollicking  fun.  Later,  the  demand  for  joy  became  a  philo- 
sophic conviction  with  him, — the  true  basis  of  the  really 
moral  life. 

It  is  interesting  to  follow  Ibsen  from  his  first  ample  exposition 
of  this  craving  for  joy  in  Ghosts,  through  some  of  his  later  plays. 
Mrs.  Alving  cannot  find  this  joy  in  her  village,  not  in  the  sensuous 
life  of  Captain  Alving,  nor  in  Regina's  conception  of  it.  She 
dreams  of  joy  more  in  the  terms  of  Oswald,  who  sees  it  in  the 
activity  of  poor,  inspired  artists  in  Paris.  Dr.  Stockman  has  a 
real  capacity  for  joy.  Ellida  finds  joy  finally  by  assuming  re- 
sponsibilities and  Dr.  Wangel  has  an  optimism  that  carries  him 
unscarred  through  all  of  his  difficult  trials.  According  to  Ibsen, 
joy  comes  to  those  who  do  not  make  a  miserable  failure  of  life  by 
violating  the  laws  of  their  own  being.  It  is  not  surprising,  there- 
fore, that  Professor  Richard  Meyer  should  sum  up  Ibsen  in  the 
words:  "One  of  the  most  significant  figures  of  modern  literature, 
whose  work  is  dominated  by  a  towering  optimism." 

The  tendency  to  recall  the  harrowing  scenes  in  Ibsen's  dramas 
as  a  proof  of  his  pessimism,  rests  upon  a  failure  to  understand 
the  very  nature  of  tragedy.  The  hero  must  die  in  order  that 
the  audience  may  see  how  he  endures  the  supreme  test.  As  Ibsen 
says  in  Brand,  "God  does  not  relent  when  His  beloved  son  in 
supreme  anguish  asks  to  be  spared."  What  would  Oswald  be, 
without  his  tragic  experiences?  What  would  become  of  Nora  as 
a  dramatic  figure  if  she  really  experienced  the  miracle  which  she- 
expects?  But  the  deatli  of  Ophelia  and  Hamlet  by  no  means 
proves  that  Shakespeare  was  a  pessimist. 


24o  IBSEN  IN  HIS  MATURITY 

Ibsen  came  at  a  time  when  industrialism  and  commercialism 
were  creating  a  new  world  order.  Old  moorings  were  being  lost 
and  there  was  imminent  danger  of  superficiality  and  laxness  in  the 
new  socitey  that  was  springing  up.  Ibsen  saw  this  danger  and 
tried  to  scourge  men  into  the  consciousness  that  his  age  was 
burdened  with  new  problems  and  responsibilities.  Like  a  Hebrew 
prophet,  he  shook  men  out  of  their  philistinism  and  moral  repose. 

To  live,  is  to  war  with  fiends 
That  infest  the  brain  and  the  heart; 
To  write,  is  to  summon  one's  self 
And  play  the  judge's  part. 

Wholesome  as  such  judicial  activity  may  be,  it  does  not 
constitute  the  highest  work  of  the  poet.  The  poet,  after  all, 
should  reveal  new  realms  of  beauty  to  the  world.  Ibsen  main- 
tained the  judge's  attitude,  but  the  poet  in  him  was  so  strong 
that  new  beauty  was  revealed  incidentally.  But  the  incidental 
should  have  been  dominating.  The  aging  poet,  in  spite  of  his 
optimism,  lacked  exuberance.  The  bubbling  wit  and  abandon 
of  his  early  years  had  been  lost  to  such  an  extent  by  the  constant 
scrutinizing,  that  the  author  of  When  We  Dead  Awaken  naturally 
longed  for  a  new  armor.  As  Lowell  did,  he  became  conscious 
of  the  fact  that  he  had  not  sufficiently  distinguished  between 
singing  and  preaching.  In  spite  of  his  optimism,  he  became 
rather  a  disappointed  old  man,  failed  where  Goethe  and  Shakes- 
peare succeeded,  because  "the  gulf  stream  of  their  youth  flowed 
into  the  polar  regions  of  their  lives." 


SIR  HERBERT  BEERBOHM  TREE 

A  MEMORY  AND  AN  APPRECIATION 
BY  ARTHUR  Row 

THE  name  of  Sir  Herbert  Beerbohm  Tree  is  linked  with 
the  most  curious  coincidence  in  my  acting  experi- 
ence, for  it  was  on  the  stage  of  the  New  Amsterdam 
Theatre,   that   I   acted   in    The   Parisian   Romance 
with  Richard  Mansfield  in  the  last  performance  he 
was  fated  ever  to  give  on  any  stage,  and  it  was  on 
this  same  stage  that  I  found  myself  with  Sir  Herbert  Tree,  years 
later,  in  Colonel  Newcome,  which  now  proves  to  be  the  last  per- 
formance to  close  the  memorable  career  of  this  more  than  distin- 
guished English  actor-manager,  litterateur  and  bon  vivant.     Mans- 
field's  last   performance  concluded   with   a   death   scene   as   did 
Colonel  Newcome  with  the  famous  and  fitting  line — "  Adsum!" 

In  speaking  of  Tree  I  say  "more  than  distinguished,"  for 
indeed  he  was  so  much  more  than  an  actor — he  was  a  personage. 
Around  his  personality  hung  much  of  the  charm  and  grace  that 
characterized  the  beloved  Colonel  Newcome  of  Thackeray's  pages. 
It  has  been  said  by  some  one  au  courant  with  affairs  in  London 
that  it  was  incredible  the  extent  and  variety  of  the  interests  that 
engaged  the  mind  of  England's  most  conspicuous  figure  in  the 
theatre.  He  was  a  cosmopolitan  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word, 
and  it  was  this  quality  that  made  his  productions  so  brilliant, 
hectic  and  compelling. 

My  first  view  of  Tree  was  as  Hamlet  at  the  Tremont  Theatre 
in  Boston  in  1894.  It  was  Harvard  night.  I  was  in  the  gallery 
which  was  packed  with  students.  The  main  part  ot  the  theatre 
was  occupied  by  the  faculty  with  their  wives  and  sweethearts. 
Electric  enthusiasm  ran  high  and  there  were  many  recalls  ending 
with  a  speech  from  Tree  when,  with  hand  on  heart,  he  said  it  was 
the  summit  of  an  actor's  ambition  to  play  Hamlet  and  to  appear 
before  such  an  audience  and  "to  thank  you  I  haf  no  words."  tor 
Tree  in  moments  of  excitement  spoke  with  a  slight  lisp  and  a 
German  accent. 

241 


242      SIR  HERBERT  BEERBOHM  TREE 

The  picture  he  made  of  Hamlet  was  memorable — much  more 
like  Hamlet  than  any  I  ever  have  seen.  This  performance  in 
Boston  was  eulogized  by  the  press  and  rapturously  received  by 
the  audience.  Its  poetry  and  exquisite  refinement  made  a  strong 
appeal  to  Bostonians. 

With  all  allowances  for  the  impressionableness  of  my  early 
teens,  he  certainly  played  upon  my  mind,  heart,  and  sensibilities 
as  few  artists  have  in  a  long  career  of  constant  theatre-going.  In 
the  same  theatre  about  the  same  time,  I  saw  Bernhardt  in  Izeyl, 
and  the  effect  on  my  nerves  and  sensibilities  was  similar. 

When  one  considers  that  Hamlet  is  two-thirds  a  poet,  indeed 
it  was  his  abnormal  sensibility  that  was  his  undoing,  is  it  any 
wonder  that  Boston  responded  rapturously  to  a  Hamlet  so 
ethereal? 

I  did  not  see  Tree  again  until  I  acted  Lord  Sands  with  him 
in  Henry  Fill  at  the  New  Amsterdam  Theatre  during  the  Shakes- 
pearean Tercentenary  in  the  Spring  of  1916. 

I  have  been  in  many  first  nights  in  New  York,  but  none  that 
equalled  the  magnificence  of  this.  The  house  fairly  blazed  with 
the  wealth,  beauty,  culture,  and  distinction  of  the  nation.  It 
was  an  opera  night — plus! 

Tree  was  given  a  royal  welcome.  At  the  close  of  the  per- 
formance, he  discarded  his  Cardinal's  robes  for  evening  clothes 
and  took  many  calls  with  a  huge  laurel  wreath  in  one  hand  and 
the  other  clasping  that  of  Cecil  King,  his  stage  manager  to  whom 
much  of  the  success  of  the  production  was  due. 

The  success  of  this  production  exceeded  that — I  think — of 
any  single  Shakespearean  production  on  the  New  York  stage. 
For  nine  weeks,  audiences  packed  the  vast  New  Amsterdam 
Theatre.  The  enthusiasm  was  overwhelming. 

"There  are  moments  in  one's  life  that  become  music,  and 
the  universe  seems  to  pause  an  instant  that  you  may  not  lose  the 
slightest  overtone  of  their  melody.  Years  after  those  moments 
are  recalled  with  almost  bated  breath.  I  have  heard  people 
speak  with  a  note  of  awed  reverence  of  their  memory  of  Edwin 
Booth.  And  that  is  the  way  they  will  speak  in  years  to  come  of 
the  great  Shakespearean  play,  Henry  VIII,  as  it  is  rendered  now 
by  Sir  Herbert  Tree  and  the  brilliant  cast  of  actors  with  him. 

"The  glory  and  beauty  of  the  early  English  Court  the  subtlety 
and  depth  of  Cardinal  Wolsey,  whose  living  spirit  seems  to  return 
at  the  call  of  Sir  Herbert  Tree's  genius,  grip  and  hold  you  spell- 
bound. 


ARTHUR  ROW  243 

"Every  member  of  the  cast,  which  will  be  remembered  al- 
ways, fulfills  his  or  her  part  with  a  perfection  worthy  of  a  leading 
part.  Living,  breathing,  suffering,  happy,  the  royal  throng  surge 
back  to  the  land  of  the  living,  with  all  their  pomp  and  glitter,  yet 
with  their  hearts  utterly  human  and  fascinating.  What  a  feast 
for  the  gods  is  the  rare  rendering  of  this  Shakespearean  play,  that 
we  are  permitted  to  add  to  our  treasure  sheet  of  memory." 

So  wrote  a  brief  chronicler  of  the  time. 

Tree's  Wolsey  was  not  wholly  appreciated,  I  fear,  by  the 
critics.  To  those  who  remembered  Henry  Irving  in  the  part, 
he  did  not  satisfy.  "We  live  not  to  be  gripped  by  meaner  ones," 
was  one  line  I  personally  missed  from  the  Tree  production — a 
line  of  concrete  value  in  sketching  the  Wolsey  character  and 
delivered  by  Irving  in  his  telling  and  wholly  inimitable  style. 

But  comparisons  are  ever  odious,  and  after  the  death  of 
Irving  it  is  doubtful  if  there  could  be  found  an  actor  who  could 
bring  to  the  impersonation  the  distinction,  crafty  cunning,  and 
striking  pictorial,  graphic  qualities  that  Tree  lavished  on  the 
character  so  successfully. 

It  was  a  happy  incident  that  his  final  appearance  in  America 
should  be  as  Colonel  Newcome — the  fine,  old  English  gentlemen — 
and  many  critics  liked  him  best  in  this  Thackeray  role.  His 
acting  here  had  a  flavor,  an  aroma  about  it  like  old  wine.  The 
pathos  of  the  old  man  he  realized  fully  and  his  disdain  for  those 
"who  made  of  life  a  business!"  His  drawing  of  the  character 
was  a  mosaic  of  fine  lines,  all  telling,  all  cumulative  in  final  effect. 

It  was  redolent  with  that  ineffable,  exquisite  Thackerean 
quality — almost  too  fine  for  the  theatre — but  to  the  few  it  was  a 
rare  delight.  It  was  caviar.  It  was  during  this  engagement 
that  he  made  almost  daily  recruiting  speeches.  One  night  at  the 
theatre,  one  of  the  supers  had  his  wig  imperfectly  blended.  It 
caught  Tree's  eagle  eye.  "If  you  icill  not  join  the  army,  at  least 
you  can  join  your  wig,"  he  said. 

At  one  of  the  dress  rehearsals,  a  stage  manager  was  berating 
an  assistant  for  not  ringing  a  bell  on  a  given  cue.  "Any/oc/^  could 
ring  it,"  he  finished  with  furiously.  "Oh!"  broke  in  Tree,  ever 
suave  and  benign — "that  is  precisely  the  trouble.  Mr.  Irving, 
not  being  a  fool,  therefore  cannot  ring  it !' 

As  a  raconteur,  'Free  was  famous.  A  group  ot  actors  were 
discussing  around  a  table  in  London  what  an  actress  s.  and  what 
alas!  so  often  she  is  n<A'.  Finallv  Tree  was  asked  his  definition  ol 


244      SIR  HERBERT  BEERBOHM  TREE 

an  actress.  "An  actress"  said  Tree  with  that  peculiar,  misty 
accent,  "an  actress  is  a  woman — in  trouble!" 

This  story  makes  one  most  reminiscent  of  the  frequent  and 
countless  unfortunate  females  arrested  and  picked  up  in  the 
streets;  when  interrogated  at  the  police  court  they  are  invariably 
"actresses"  by  profession! 

Apropos  of  this,  the  Jefferson  Night  Court  in  New  York  is 
peopled  not  only  with  alleged  actresses  but  the  dear  things  ever 
pick  out  favorite  names  and  blithely  tell  the  officer  they  are 
Julia  Marlowe  or  the  dignified  Mrs.  Fiske  or  the  demure  Maude 
Adams.  According  to  the  books,  almost  every  prominent  actress 
has  been  an  unwilling  guest  at  Jefferson  Court.  But  the  bitter 
truth  remains  that  no  woman,  no  matter  how  unfortunate  or 
deranged,  has  acknowledged  she  was  our  immortal  Eva  Tanguay! 

Once,  in  speaking  of  an  actress  as  famous  for  her  nobility, 
spirituality,  and  virtue,  as  for  her  talents,  Tree  concluded  by 
remarking  she  lacked  only  one  thing — the  sin  of  magnetism! 

Tree  was  most  precise  in  his  use  of  words.  A  few  years  before 
the  Legion  of  Honor  was  conferred  upon  Sarah  Bernhardt  by  the 
French  Government,  Tree  gave  an  elaborate  party  in  honor  of 
this  illustrious  actress  who  was  then  acting  in  London.  In  his 
address  of  welcome,  he  very  aptly  and  brilliantly  said  that  while 
she  had  not  (then)  been  decorated  it  was  really  a  misnomer  for 
had  she  not  bestowed  the  Legion  of  Honor  upon  France  ? 

Years  afterwards  in  recalling  this  incident  to  him  he  corrected 
me  sharply — "No!  No!"  said  Sir  Herbert,  "Meanwhile — mean- 
while— she  had  bestowed  the  Legion  of  Honor  upon  France. " 

Much  virtue  in  the  "if"  also  it  would  seem  in  the  "mean- 
while. " 

With  all  his  sophistication  and  worldliness,  Tree  could  appear 
to  supreme  advantage  in  a  Cathedral.  At  a  service  in  St.  John 
the  Divine  in  New  York  to  commemorate  Shakespear's  birthday, 
Tree  occupied  the  pulpit,  delivering  an  address  on  the  universality 
of  Shakespeare.  To  prove  this  he  quoted  from  five  of  his  plays, 
peculiarly  happy  and  effective  and  conclusive  quotations,  too, 
by  the  way.  The  chancel  was  presided  over  by  a  Bishop  and 
filled  with  clergymen,  yet  Tree  looked  more  conclusively  clerical 
than  any  of  the  clergy!  And  his  address  was  more  effective  than 
any  of  the  many  speeches,  not  omitting  the  exquisitely  noble 
rendition  of  some  of  Hamlet's  lines  by  the  spiritual  and  ascetic 
Forbes-Robertson. 


ARTHUR  ROW  245 

Coincident  with  the  news  of  Tree's  death,  has  come  a  chorus 
of  writers  hastening  to  assure  the  public  that  he  was  not  really  a 
good  actor,  certainly  not  a  great  actor,  indeed  quite  a  mediocre 
actor!  If  this  is  so,  then  he  was  possessed  of  more  than  extra- 
ordinary mesmeric  powers,  for  he  successfully  duped  and  fooled 
theatre-goers  of  two  continents  for  thirty  years  to  an  incredible 
degree,  in  fact,  these  statements  simply  prove  the  English-speak- 
ing world  a  fool.  Perhaps  it  is  significant  that  in  none  of  these 
denunciatory  articles  on  his  acting  is  there  one  who  writes  con- 
structively on  just  what  Tree  did  do,  or  how  he  managed  to  delight 
so  many  people  for  so  many  years. 

It  is  so  easy  to  tear  down,  especially  when  a  man  is  dead. 
How  many  can  analyze  or  appreciate? 


DEATH 

BY  HUGO  vox  HOFMANNSTHAL 

Translated  by  C.  A7.  Stork 

What  hours  arc  those!  when,  shiningly  outspread, 
The  ocean  lures  us,  and  we  lightly  learn 
The  solemn  lore  of  death,  and  feel  no  dread: 

As  a  small  child,  whose  great  eyes  seem  to  yearn, 
A  girl  with  pallid  checks  and  limbs  a-cold, 
One  evening  looks  far  out  and  does  not  turn 

Her  feebly-smiling  gaze,  for,  loosing  hold 
Upon  her  slumber-drunken  limbs,  the  flood 
Of  life  glides  over  into  grass  and  wold;— 

Or  as  a  saint  pours  out  her  martyr  blood. 


AMONG  FRIENDS 


It  must  be  wonderful  to  write 
an  autobiography  and  be  able  to 
talk  about  yourself  to  your  heart's 
content  without  any  one's  inter- 
rupting rudely  to  talk  about  his 
affairs.  Some  time  when  the  price 
of  paper  is  not  so  high,  I  am  going 
to  take  a  vacation  and  write  an 
autobiography.  Of  course  I  shall 
destroy  it  afterwards,  but  after 
that  wild  orgy,  I  believe  I  shall  be 
able  to  come  back  and  listen  polite- 
ly when  my  friends  tell  me  how 
many  sweaters  they  have  knit  for 
the  Red  Cross.  Perhaps  I  shall 
be  able  even  to  show  an  intelligent 
interest  in  the  habits  of  their  latest 
servants,  and  I  might  even  go  so 
far  as  to  give  a  moderate  amount 
of  attention  to  anecdotes  concern- 
ing their  husbands. 

I  will  say,  however,  that  I  had 
no  desire  to  interrupt  when  I  was 
reading  These  Many  Years  by 
Brander  Matthews  (Scribners).  As 
is  the  case  with  most  autobiogra- 
phies, the  first  part  is  the  most 
interesting.  The  vivid  pictures  of 
life  in  New  York  in  the  eighties 
are  particularly  enjoyable. 

Richard  Harding  Davis  prac- 
tically wrote  his  autobiography  in 
his  letters.  Fortunately  they  are 
available  for  us  in  his  Adventure* 
and  Letters  (Scribners).  All  his 
tenderness,  humor,  good  fellow- 
ship, and  high-heartedness  are  re- 
flected in  his  letters. 

Unicorns  (Scribners)  is  a  very 
noteworthy  addition  to  the  works 
of  James  Huneker.  In  it,  he  dis- 
cusses unicorns,  the  strange  dream- 


creatures  in  the  field  of  art, — the 
artists  whose  works  are  unintelli- 
gible except  to  those  who  have 
deep  artistic  appreciation. 

As  a  child,  I  thought  there  were 
real  unicorns;  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
they  are  not  nearly  so  impossible 
as  a  rhinoceros,  a  giraffe,  or  a  hip- 
popotamus! Perhaps,  after  all, 
for  once  I  was  right  and  the  uni- 
corns, the  mystical  creatures,  the 
dreamers,  are  the  real  people;  and 
we  others  are  only  shadows. 

A  quaint  little  volume  is  Divers 
Proverbs  by  Nathan  Bailey  (1721) 
published  by  the  Yale  University 
Press.  The  book  is  worth  reading 
just  for  its  rare  common  sense,  but 
its  artistic  printing  and  old-style 
woodcuts  make  it  delightful. 

Some  one  has  said  that  the  two 
rarest  things  in  the  world  are  com- 
mon sense  and  a  well  baked  potato. 
Last  year,  thanks  to  the  exigencies 
of  war,  we  learned  to  do  without 
well  baked  potatoes,  but  goodness 
knows  that  life  among  people  de- 
void of  common  sense  would  be 
unendurable.  Perhaps  good  breed- 
ing is  a  quality  even  more  import- 
ant, if  we  care  anything  at  all  about 
making  life  endurable  for  other 
people.  Show  me  a  person  with 
both  common  sense  and  good 
breeding  and  all  the  things  that 
Hamlet  said  about  Horatio,  I'll 
say  about  him.  Lord  Chester- 
field, the  first  gentleman  of  Europe, 
tried  to  cultivate  both  these  quali- 
ties in  his  son.  Judge  Robert 
McMurdy  has  done  a  great  ser- 
vice by  his  admirable  editing  of 


246 


AMONG  FRIENDS 


247 


Lord  Chesterfield's  letters  to  his 
son,  in  The  Modern  Chesterfield 
(Badger). 

A  book  concerned  with  the  well- 
being  of  the  younger  members  of 
society  is  The  Child  That  Does 
Not  Stumble  (Badger)  by  Wilhel- 
mine  Putnam  Willson.  It  is  grati- 
fying to  come  across  a  book  on 
child  rearing  written  by  one  who 
knows  whereof  she  speaks.  Mrs. 
Willson  is  the  mother  of  six  very 
lusty  children  who  have  prospered 
under  her  treatment,  just  as  they 
should. 

The  book  is  written  in  a  popular 
way,  but  it  is  evident  that  the 
author  has  a  sound  knowledge  of 
the  fundamental  truths  of  psycho- 
logy. She  docs  not  believe  in  the 
old  way  of  spanking  a  child  when- 
ever he  proved  himself  a  nuisance 
to  grown-ups.  She  believes  in 
keeping  a  child  from  stumbling 
physically,  mentally,  or  morally, 
just  as  the  child  wants  to  do  when 
he  is  given  a  fair  show. 

A  book  which,  of  course,  all 
mothers  will  believe  written  for 
their  offspring,  is  The  Exceptional 
Child  (Scribners)  by  Maximilian 
P.  E.  Groszmann. 

Child  Behavior  (Badger)  by  Dr. 
Florence  Mateer  marks  a  new 
epoch  in  child  study.  Scientific 
men  always  have  claimed  that  the 
exact  study  of  the  mind  of  the 
young  child  was  impossible,  and 
certainly  I  always  had  thought  so 
myself.  Through  the  new  objec- 
tive and  animal  psychology,  Dr. 
Mateer  has  presented  for  the  first 
time  a  critical  and  experimental 
study  of  young  children  by  the 
method  of  conditioned  reflexes. 

A  book  whose  title  alone  is  sub- 
ject for  thought  is  The  Privilege  of 


Education  (Badger)  by  George  L. 
Jackson.  Think  what  a  valuable 
book  it  is  to  have  lying  around 
on  the  table  for  small  boys  with 
truant  tendencies  to  look  at!  The 
volume  is  an  admirable  history  of 
the  extension  of  the  privilege  of 
education  from  early  times  when 
no  women  were  educated  and  only 
a  few  of  the  more  fortunate  men 
received  any  education  at  all,  down 
to  the  present  when  the  deaf, 
blind,  and  feebleminded  are  sup- 
posed to  receive  their  share  of 
training. 

Professor  Jackson  has  gone  back 
to  source  material  in  making  his 
deductions  concerning  the  differ- 
ent periods.  One  of  the  quotations 
which  he  cited  was  a  particularly 
significant  one  from  St.  Jerome. 

"Put  letters  into  Paula's  hands 
and  teach  her  the  meaning  of 
them.  Take  care  that  she  does 
not  conceive  a  dislike  for  study  that 
may  follow  her  into  a  more  ad- 
vanced age. " 

Perhaps  if  St.  Jerome  had  ar- 
ranged our  present  educational 
system,  I  should  not  be  obliged 
to  shudder  every  time  I  pass  a 
school  building. 

A  book  which  also  considers 
education  is  The  Philosophical 
Basis  of  Education  (Badger)  by 
Rolland  M.  Shreves.  The  author 
considers  the  deeper  questions  and 
theories  of  the  subject  in  a  very 
thorough  manner.  Most  import- 
ant of  all,  he  emphasizes  the  su- 
preme importance  of  self-realiza- 
tion which  he  conceives  to  be  the 
real  aim  of  education.  As  Dr. 
Shreves  says,  a  person  must  be 
made  to  see  that  a  life  that  has  no 
plan  is  a  life  that  is  not  worth 
living.  If  a  life  is  to  be  made 
harmonious  and  significant,  it  is 
possible  only  through  lo\  al  de- 
votion to  an  ideal  or  purpose. 


248 


AMONG  FRIENDS 


Diderot's  Early  Philosophical 
Works  (Open  Court)  have  been 
excellently  translated  and  edited 
by  Margaret  Jourdain. 

J.  Arthur  Hill  has  written  ver- 
batim records  of  sittings  with  cer- 
tain well-known  mediums  in  Psy- 
chical Investigations  (Doran). 

In  Harvard  Lights  and  Shadows 
(Gorham  Press),  the  author,  Victor 
Rine,  has  considered  an  important 
college  group,  too  often  neglected. 
Just  as  academic  courses  pale  into 
insignificance  before  the  superior 
radiance  of  athletics  and  fraterni- 
ties, so  the  freaks  and  grinds  are 
considered  nonenties  in  the  college 
world.  Mr.  Rine  gives  a  decided- 
ly interesting  picture  of  college  life 
as  viewed  by  the  intellectual  and 
egocentric. 

Tenderfoot  Days  (Badger)  by 
George  R.  Bird  takes  us  back  to 
the  times  before  war  prices  had 
swooped  down  on  the  demon  rum. 
As  the  author  says,  those  were 
the  clays  of  corn  whiskey  as  yellow 
as  gold,  and  as  hot  as  fire.  It 
keeled  over  the  drinker  at  forty 
yards.  The  front  streets  of  the 
Western  towns  were  given  up  to 
saloons  of  vigorous  titles. 

George  R.  Bird  was  one  of  the 
multitude  of  young  men  who 
heeded  Horace  Greeley's  advice 
'"Go  West,  young  man,  Go  West!" 
He  went  through  the  closed  terri- 
tory of  Utah  where  there  was  no 
welcome  for  outsiders.  In  fact, 
there  were  strange  stories  of  deaths 
encountered  by  pioneers  who  pass- 
ed through.  Between  the  Indians 
and  hostile  Mormons,  the  tender- 
foot's days  were  not  the  most  care- 
free. Great  was  the  power  of  the 
Prophet,  and  what  he  could  not 
accomplish  through  his  special 


police — appropriately  called  the 
Destroying  Angels — he  managed 
to  bring  about  through  drunken 
Indians. 

The  whole  book  is  filled  with 
humor  and  adventure  and  human 
nature. 

As  a  rule  I  fight  shy  of  religious 
books.  That  is  the  sad  part  about 
them, — the  people  who  really  need 
them,  don't  read  them.  I  refrain 
from  saying,  vice  versa.  I  have 
found  one,  however,  that  is  un- 
usual,— Unofficial  Christianity  by 
Shelton  Bissell  (Richard  G.  Bad- 
ger). Unofficial  Christianity  is 
just  Christianity  without  bigotry, 
superstition,  or  dogma.  Shelton 
Bissell  presents  the  Christianity  of 
Christ,  not  the  Christianity  of 
creed.  The  book  will  appeal  to 
the  person  who  considers  himself 
unorthodox.  I  really  can't  say 
how  it  will  appeal  to  the  other 
kind. 

As  the  author  says,  Christianity 
should  not  only  preserve  itself, 
but  also  reproduce  goodness  by 
contagion. 

"But  in  many  quarters  and  for 
many  generations  a  contrary  view 
has  prevailed.  Goodness'  chief 
business  was  to  quarantine  itself 
against  the  devilishness  of  the 
world.  The  Church  was  an  ark 
of  safety,  a  city  of  refuge,  a  strong 
fortress  of  defense  against  the 
spiritual  hosts  of  wickedness. 
Thus  the  Church  became  the 
official  patron  and  custodian  of 
Goodness,  which  was  to  be  pre- 
served only  by  keeping  its  skirts 
clear  of  the  contaminating  in- 
fluence of  evil." 

In  speaking  of  orthodoxy's  atti- 
tude towards  intelligence,  the  au- 
thor says,  "Official  Christianity 
may  not  be  acquitted  of  an  atti- 
tude of  suspicion  toward  ripe 


AMONG  FRIENDS 


249 


scholarship.  Ceasing  to  burn  her- 
etics, it  abuses  them.  Stupid- 
ity has  been  termed  less  dangerous 
than  learning.  Orthodox  theol- 
ogy and  heterodox  science  have 
fought  and  bled  and  lived  to  fight 
again.  When  Genesis  and  geology 
disagree,  there  is  a  verdict  in  favor 
of  the  former  only." 

Shelton  Bissell  devotes  a  very 
significant  chapter  to  The  Use  and 
Misuse  of  the  Bible.  One  of  the 
deepest  grudges  I  have  harbored 
against  orthodoxy  is  the  way  it 
has  taken  all  the  zest  from  read- 
ing the  bible.  One  of  my  earliest 
recollections  is  of  compiling  a  scrap 
book  of  very  miscellaneous  litera- 
ture— for  it  was  before  I  could 
read — and  presenting  it  to  my 
mother  so  she  would  not  have  to 
read  the  bible  to  me  every  Sunday. 

Other  notable  religious  publica- 
tions are: 

The  Righteousness  of  Jehovah 
by  Richard  F.  Chambers  (Gorham 
Press). 

True  Christian.  True  Chi.rch, 
True  Teachings  by  Albert  Torbet 
(Gorham  Press). 

Creation  Ex  Nihilo  by  L.  Frank- 
lin Gruber  (Gorham  Press). 

The  Democracy  of  the  Trees  by 
Edward  Andrews  (Gorham  Press). 

Help  H  hen  Templed  and  Tried 
by  Jeremiah  Zimmerman  (Gorham 
Press). 

The  Silent  Nazarene  by  Everett 
Sperow  (Gorham  Press). 

The  Rose  of  Sharon  by  Everett 
Sperow  (Gorham  Press). 

Theological  Essays  by  A.  \  an  C. 
P.  Huizinga  (Gorham  Press). 

The  Christian  Religion  by  Ed- 
ward F.  Williams  (Gorham  Press). 

The  Compass  by  Edwin  L.  Mc- 
llvaine  (Gorham  Press). 

The  Treeof  Ileaven  by  May  Sin- 
clair (Macmillan)  presents  the  life 


history  of  a  whole  family  includ- 
ing the  inevitable  wife's  relatives. 
As  is  the  case  with  most  novels 
where  we  are  introduced  to  the 
characters  when  they  are  children, 
we  regret  the  inevitable  law  of  life 
which  forces  them  to  grow  up. 
In  this  book  it  is  not  because  the 
characters  become  less  interesting, 
for  they  do  not;  but  May  Sinclair 
proves  herself  a  true  Spartan 
mother  to  the  children  of  her 
brain,  for  she  sends  them  all  to 
war.  All  of  them  are  killed,  ex- 
cept the  last  one,  and  we  arc 
mercifully  spared  that  pang  by 
bidding  him  farewell  before  he 
goes  away.  I  said  all  were  killed, 
but  I  was  wrong.  The  wife's 
mother,  the  three  maiden  aunts, 
the  drunken  uncle,  the  suffragette 
daughter,  and  the  uncle  who 
nourishes  a  variety  of  diseases,  all 
weather  the  storm.  I  was  sorry 
to  see  the  others  die,  because  the 
author  had  made  her  characters 
really  live.  I  recognized  a  num- 
ber of  my  own  acquaintances 
among  those  who  survived. 


The  Three  Blank  Penny s  by 
Joseph  Hergesheimer  (Knor!)  is 
another  novel  including  the  whole 
family,  but  Mr.  Hergesheimer  goes 
Miss  Sinclair  one  better  by  earn- 
ing the  Penny  family  through 
three  generations.  The  part  1 
regret  is  that  there  should  have 
been  two  more  generations  when 
thev  could  not  be  a  good  as  the 
first.  It  is,  of  course,  unfair  to 
say  that,  because  the  author  shows 
remarkable  artistry  in  tracing  the 
natural  development  of  a  family. 

A  decidedly  different  novel  con- 
cerning war  conditions  is  The 
Return  of  the  Soldier  by  Rebecca 
West  (Century)- 


250 


AMONG  FRIENDS 


Twentieth  Century  Athenians  by 
Ray  Robinson  (Badger)  is  the  story 
of  a  group  of  unusual  young 
people.  The  book  is  filled  with 
conversations  about  Broadway, 
about  business,  about  books,  about 
universal  law,  about  Schopenhauer 
and  Nietzsche,  about  destiny,  and 
about  Platonic  dreams. 

That  the  author  doesn't  limit 
himself  to  philosophizing  is  proved 
by  the  fact  that  he  is  at  present 
first  lieutenant  of  engineers. 

Different  (Gorham  Press)  is  a 
college  story  published  anony- 
mously. 

The  Story  of  a  Pass  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks  by  A.  L.  Byron-Curtiss 
(Gorham  Press)  is  the  story  of  a 
pasteboard  pass  instead  of  one  of 
mountain  crags,  overhanging  cliffs, 
and  enticing  valleys.  Yet  the 
pass  led  to  all  these,  because  it 
gave  three  people  a  chance  to 
enjoy  an  exclusive  Adirondack 
club. 

Saturday  Night  Sketches  by  J.  L- 
Herring  (Gorham  Press)  are  stories 
of  Wiregrass  Georgia  with  its  can- 
dy-pullings,  singing  school,  cane- 
grinding,  and  cotton-picking. 

The  Tale  of  Tom  Rabbit  by  Mary 
Covert  (The  Gorham  Press)  is  a 
charming  story  for  children.  It  is 
interesting  to  learn  how  many 
wonderful  adventures  one  small 
rabbit  can  live  through. 

Willy  Pogany  has  furnished  de- 
lightful illustrations  for  a  new  edi- 
tion of  Gulliver's  Travels  (Mac- 
millanj.  The  book  is  worth  look- 
ing at  merely  for  the  sake  of  the 
grotesque  little  faces  at  the  ends 
of  the  chapters. 


Arthur  P.ackham's  illustrations 
for  The  Romance  of  King  Arthur 
come  up  to  his  usual  high  stand- 
ard. He  has  achieved  the  almost 
impossible  feat  of  giving  each 
face  a  unique  personality, — a  per- 
sonality which  is  startlingly  real 
and  yet  which  corresponds  to  the 
costumes  and  to  the  period. 

The  book  leads  me  back  to  read- 
ing those  wonderful  stories  again. 
Those  were  the  times!  A  knight 
would  ride  up  and  say,  "Know  you 
of  any  adventures?"  When  he 
heard  of  a  really  good  exploit,  off 
he  would  go  to  compass  it. 

The  Soy's  King  Arthur  by  Lanier 
(Scribners)  presents  the  stories  in 
attractive  form  for  younger  read- 
ers. 

Limehouse  Nights  by  Thomas 
Burke  (McBride)  is  a  volume  of 
startling  stories  laid  in  London's 
Chinatown.  The  book  is  the  most 
original  volume  of  fiction  I  have 
read  this  year. 

Finished  by  H.  Rider  Haggard 
(Longman)  forms  the  third  of  the 
trilogy  of  which  Marie  and 
Child  of  Storm  are  the  first  two 
parts. 

Recent  military  publications  are: 

A  History  of  the  Great  War,  by 
Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle  (Doran). 

No  Man's  Land,  "Sapper" 
(Doran). 

Under  Fire  by  Henri  Barbusse 
(Dutton). 

Militarism  by  Dr.  Karl  Lieb- 
knecht  (Huebsch). 

Our  Army  and  How  to  Know  It — 
Our  Navy  and  How  to  Know  It 
published  by  the  Scientific  Ameri- 
can. 

The  Rebuilding  of  Europe  by 
David  J.  Hill  (Century). 

Private  Peat  (Bobbs-Merrill). 


AMONG  FRIENDS 


251 


Ralph  Adams  Cram  has  pre- 
sented to  posterity  The  Substance 
of  Gothic  (Marshall  Jones),  six 
lectures  on  the  development  of 
Architecture  from  Charlemagne  to 
Henry  VIII.  Perhaps  the  most 
imposing  thing  about  the  hook  is 
the  portrait  of  the  author  in  full 
academic  panoply. 

A  significant  and  inspiring  vol- 
ume on  the  history  of  music  is 
Critical  and  Historical  Essays  by 
Edward  MacDowell  (Schmidt). 

Creators  of  Decorative  Styles 
by  Walter  A.  Dyer  (Doubleday) 
considers  eleven  of  the  great  lead- 
ers of  artistic  thought  in  England 
including  Inigo  Jones,  Thomas 
Chippendale,  Adam,  Josiah  Wedg- 
wood, Hepplewhite,  and  Sheraton. 

These  people  who  sigh  for  de- 
parted childhood  make  me  sick. 
Any  one  might  as  well  wish  him- 
self back  in  the  stone  age.  I  will 
say,  however,  there  is  one  time 
when  I  wish  myself  a  child  again, 
and  that  is  when  I  see  a  marvclous- 
ly  complete  toy  theatre.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  do  that  now  that 
there  are  so  main  charming  little 
theatres  all  over  the  country.  I 
wish  there  were  one  in  every  town. 
There  ought  to  be.  These  toy 
theatres  for  grown-ups  are  dis- 
cussed in  The  Little  Theatre  in  the 
L '  mteJ  States  by  Constance  D'Arcy 
Mackay  (Holt)  and  The  Art  Theatre 
by  Sheldon  Cheney  (Knopf). 

Two  new  plays  of  wide  difference 
are  Esther  and  Harbonah  by  II. 
Pereira  Alendes  (The  Gorham 
Press)  and  Efficiency  by  Robert  H. 
Davis  and  Pcrley  Poore  Sheehan 
(Doran).  The  former  written  in 
verse,  is  the  dramatic  version  o! 
that  wonderful  biblical  stor\  o: 


Esther.  The  work  is  accomplished 
with  sympathy  and  artistry.  Ef- 
ficiency  deals  with  Prussian  mili- 
tarism. 

I  was  interested  in  the  title 
Tricks  of  the  Trade  (Putnams). 
"Ah,"  I  thought,  "Here  is  a 
chance  to  learn  something."  I 
did  learn  that  the  author  J.  C. 
Squire  seems  to  consider  himself 
superior  to  Wordsworth,  Swin- 
burne, Masefield,  Pope,  Gray  and 
Byron,  for  he  has  written  parodies 
of  all  of  them.  I  am  glad  to  think 
that  some  of  the  authors  are  dead, 
so  that  they  ma}'  not  realize  the 
crushing  disgrace  of  being  parodied 
by  J.  C.  Squire. 

Chanticleer  Poems  (The  Gorham 
Press)  by  Edward  F.  Jackman  arc- 
filled  with  the  same  cheery  hearti- 
ness as  the  matins  of  the  birJ  that, 
gives  them  their  name. 

Caro!iu:><s  and  Merone  (Gorham 
Press)  by  Irene  Angclc  Baber  is  a 
volume  of  poetry  which  tak.-s  up 
even-  phase  of  the  love  life  of  a 
woman  of  deep  emotions  and  artis- 
tic sensibility. 

Hear!  SOK^S  (The  Gorham  Press) 
is  a  volume  of  religious  verse  by 
Henry  \\  cston  Frost  who  went 
from  successful  business  life  into 
the  ministry.  The  order  of  vo- 
cations is  the  reverse  of  the  or- 
dinary one.  Needless  to  say.  the 
poems  arc  tilled  with  the  same 
religious  ferv<>;-  as  the  life  <>!  the 
author. 

Mulford  Doughty, author  of  that 
charming  little  volume  of  poems 
called  T:ceni\-()ne  (The  Gorham 
Press),  is  an  out-and-out  reaction- 
ist against  the  new  school  ot  poetry 
and  against  all  crude,  unfinished 
verse.  The  writer  is  old-fasioncd 


252 


AMONG  FRIENDS 


enough  to  believe  that  harmony, 
melody,  and  music  are  essentials 
of  all  poetry,  and  has  gone  so  far 
as  to  fill  the  book  full  of  them. 

Other  noteworthy  volumes  of 
verse  are:  Anthology  of  Swedish 
Lyrics,  admirably  translated  by 
Charles  Wharton  Stork  (The 
American-Scandinavian  Founda- 
tion), Poems,  selected  from  John 
Masefield's  works  (Macmillan), 
Beggar  and  King  by  Richard 
Butler  Glaenzer  (Yale  University 
Press),  The  Tower  of  Ivory  by 
Archibald  MacLeish  (Yale),  Yale 
Review  Verse  (Yale),  Sonnets  and 
Other  Lyrics  by  Robert  Selliman 
Hillyer  (Harvard  University  Press) 
A  Book  of  Verse  of  the  Great  War, 
edited  by  W.  Reginald  Wheeler 
(Yale),5oo&  of  New  York  Verse, 
edited  by  Hamilton  Fish  Arm- 
strong (Putnam's),  A  Garden  of 
Remembrance,  by  James  Terry 
White  (James  T.  White  &  Com- 
pany), Songs  of  the  Stalwart  by 
Grantland  Rice  (Appleton),  At 


Vesper  Time  by  Ruth  Baldwin 
Chenery  (Putnam's),  The  Wind 
in  the  Corn  by  Edith  Franklin 
Wyatt  (Appleton),  With  the  Colors 
by  Everard  Jack  Appleton  (Stew- 
art and  Kidd),  Souls  by  Glenn 
Hughes  (Elder)  //  /  Could  Fly  by 
Rose  Strong  Hubbel  (Putnam's), 
A  Banjo  at  Armageddon  by  Berton 
Braley  (Doran),  A  Collection  of 
Patriotic  Poems  of  Walt  Whit- 
man (Doubleday  Page);  Sea  Dogs 
and  Men  at  Arms  by  Jesse  Edgar 
Middleton  (Putnam);  The  English 
Sonnet  by  T.  W.  H.  Crosland 
(Dodd,  Mead);  Poems:  2908-1914 
by  John  Drinkwater  (Dodd, 
Mead);  Star  Drift  by  Brian  Pa- 
draic  O'Seasnain  (Four  Seas); 
Twenty-Six  Poems  by  Cecil  Rob- 
erts (Dodd,  Mead);  The  Masque 
of  Poets  edited  by  Edward  J. 
O'Brien  (Dodd,  Mead);  Georgian 
Poetry,  1916-1917  (Putnam);  No- 
vember by  Henry  Bryan  (Dodd, 
Mead);  The  Potter's  Clay  by  Marie 
Tudor  (Putnam);  Lustra  by  Ezra 
Pound  (Knopf). 


FEB  17  1953 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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